


From Paris, With Love

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: The Two Brothers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Drama, F/M, Fluff, France - Freeform, Paris - Freeform, Sexual Humor, Sexual Situations, Strong Language, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and you take a trip to Paris. But you soon find that the situation with Sherlock is never far behind...and when you get back, well, that's when things really get interesting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Paris, With Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I hope you enjoy this! Also, just for your information, the places mentioned in Paris are real and so some of the description is not mine. :)
> 
> Update on 19/01: Thanks to La Mome for the song suggestions, which I have added in. :)

_“F/N!”_ Mycroft says grumpily when you absent-mindedly kick him in bed for the fifth time that night. 

 

“Sorry,” you get out, before you roll away from him with a bit of a thump so that you can switch the bedside lamp on. 

 

You can’t help but smile a little though when your eyes catch sight of the fake black moustache that you've left on the bedside table, next to a great big French flag. Hoping that the moustache might make him smile too you hold it over your top lip, before you turn back to him. 

 

“I was rather hoping that the last time I’d see that would be when you insisted on wearing it as you served me that warm, buttery baguette earlier,” he groans.

 

“Ah, do I detect that you liked my baguette Sir?” you ask in a mystical French accent, whilst you raise an eyebrow. But when he merely groans again you pout a little, before you briefly turn so that you can rest the fake moustache back on the bedside table. “What’s the matter?" you ask, "Don’t you like your women hairy?” as you turn back to him. 

 

“It makes you look like Dr. Watson that time he made a hideous attempt to grow one,” he says with a roll of his eyes, before he turns around with a thump. 

 

“Hmm,” you pretend to muse, “Remind me to cancel those plans to ask him for a threesome then.”

 

Mycroft just groans. 

 

But that doesn't deter you from asking, “Out of all the people we know which one, if you had to choose, would you invite for a threesome?” as you roll onto your stomach with a grin. 

 

Mycroft, on his back now only has to give that a moment’s thought, before he shudders, “None of them.” 

 

“But if you _had_ to choose?” you needle. 

 

“Still none of them,” Mycroft replies. “Now go to sleep,” he orders, as he rolls onto his side away from you once more. 

 

You however, unlike your fiancé, are too full of energy to obey such a command, _and_ , unable to stay in bed any longer you toss the duvet back, before you push yourself into a standing position. Mycroft lets out a further groan of protest as you do so. 

 

“What are you doing?” he grumbles, rolling onto his back and lifting his head up blearily now so that he can look at you. 

 

“I just want to check that I've packed everything,” you tell him, looking quickly back at him. 

 

“F/N, it’s”- and he breaks off now so that he can look at the clock on the bedside table. The sight of what time it is makes him groan, before he tells you, “Two o’ clock in the morning,” as he inwardly curses you. But when you just carry on making your approach to where your f/c travel case is standing at the foot of the bed he feels the need to add, “You’ll have plenty of time to do that. We’re not catching the train until 10:24,” in an attempt to further try and persuade you to behave. 

 

You make a sound in your throat to show that you've heard him. But then you heave the case onto the bed and click it open anyway. 

 

Mycroft groans. Then he sits up so that he’s resting his back against the headboard, before he tugs the duvet, which is annoyingly resistant to him because of your case, further up so that it’s resting securely around his hips. 

 

You make a bit of a disapproving noise in your throat at him doing such a thing, but you don’t say anything. You just carry on rooting around in your case. 

 

Mycroft watches as you mutter to yourself, looking rather insane with your bed hair. Not to mention with the way that you’re half-bent over the case as you wear nothing but your favourite pyjamas. 

 

Then he shifts his position a little, preparing himself for a long night, for he knows that when you get an idea in your head you can be as stubborn as a mule until you've carried it out. You meanwhile stride around the room, checking the drawers and wardrobe once more. 

 

Mycroft frowns however when he sees what you’re bringing back to add to the case. “Postcards?” he asks, “Why do you need them?” 

 

You frown yourself now, as if he’s interrupted your concentration. Then in the next moment you look down at the small, transparent box, which is full of blank postcards, as if _you’re_ even wondering why you’re suddenly bringing them. But then a quite different thought must pop in your head, for a mischievous look slowly begins to take over your face, and as you look up at him again you wiggle your eyebrows playfully. “Just in case I'm too busy exploring other sights to see the ones in France and pick one up…” you say. 

 

Mycroft’s feeling too tired and weary in that moment to find your seductive behaviour enticing though. Rather he just finds it annoying, so he says, “Of _course_ you’ll have time, I’ll be in work for part of it,” waving his hands a little. 

 

“All right Mr. Grumpy Gills,” you pout a little, dropping the box of postcards in your case regardless now, and you ignore the fact that you’ll have to properly squash it in later. “I _know_ you’ll be at work for part of it. You've reminded me enough times.” 

 

Mycroft just gives you a look. Then he folds his arms and looks off to the side as he tells you, “That’s just so that you don’t think you’re getting more than what you are. Besides, you know I don’t like it when you call me that, so I’d appreciate it if you could desist in doing so from now on.”

 

 _“Well,”_ you tell him, folding your own arms now, “If you insist on calling everyone goldfish then you’re going to get the odd fish reference thrown back at you.” 

 

“I've never called _you_ a goldfish,” he says, giving you a bit of a reproachful look now as if he thinks that you’re being unfair. 

 

 _“Ahem,”_ you begin, and then you place one hand on your hip and lift the other halfway up towards you, peering down at it as if you’re reading a list. Then, whilst Mycroft raises his eyebrows at you, you clear your throat and say, “Just before we first met I heard you casually stating to your brother that you’d seen he’d picked up another goldfish to, and I quote, ‘show off his nuggets of wisdom to’”- you break off, looking up at Mycroft now with a smirk. 

 

“That was before we’d even met,” Mycroft flushes. 

 

“All right,” you say, adjusting your position now as you accept that defence, and you look briefly down at your hand again as if you’re checking something, before you look back up at him. “Then how about when we were watching TV the other night and I laughed at something that you found completely unfunny and you said in a really snooty voice, ‘God, sometimes you act _so_ much like a goldfish,’ before you turned away from me in a completely dismissive fashion and barely looked at me for the rest of the night?” 

 

“You’re taking it out of context, like you said, I only said that, _‘sometimes,’_ you act like a goldfish,” Mycroft tries to placate you, before he ruins it altogether when he says, “Besides that joke _wasn't_ funny.”

 

“Just because it was a little crude…” you trail off, lowering your hands, before you lift up one of them again so that you can run it through your hair in a frustrated fashion. 

 

“I have no problem with the topic it was on, as you should well know, ” Mycroft says, and you duck your head a little now, smiling in spite of yourself. Then you look up at him again as he says, “Anyway, whether it was funny or not, it’s far too late to be arguing about such inconsequential things.” He can tell that you still think that he’s just being grumpy though, so he huffs out a bit of a breath, unfolds his arms and says, “I'm _not_ being grumpy, I just want everything to go all right, and more than that right now I just want to go to sleep. Can’t you check your packing in the morning?” before he adds, “In the _proper_ morning?” when you look as if you’re about to tell him that it _is_ morning. 

 

Still, you’re not quite sure whether you’re comfortable to stop checking what you've packed right now, even if it _is_ for his benefit, so you just bite your lip. 

 

Mycroft, seeing such indecision, lets out yet another groan, before he slides down and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. 

 

Perhaps it’s the fact that in that moment you can tell just how frustrated he really is, or perhaps it’s the fact that part of the milky, smooth freckled skin on his back is now deliciously on show, but for whatever reason you decide to abandon your packing. 

 

You slip the case gently back onto the floor, leaving the lid of it open and deciding that you’ll figure out whether you’re going to take the postcards with you or not in the morning. 

 

Then you go to fetch the massage oil that you keep in one of the drawers, before you go to his side of the bed and slowly begin to peel the duvet off him. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he says, clearly thinking that you’re going to be annoying again if the way that he turns his head and groans is anything to go by. 

 

“Shh,” you tell him, and he stiffens automatically, before he lets out a groan when he feels you moving to sit on his lower back. 

 

“F/N, what”- he begins, but then he lets out an, _“Ah,”_ and arches up against you, his head lifting off the pillow, when your hands, now covered a little in the oil, begin to massage at his shoulders. “Mmm,” he murmurs, as your fingers make light work of the tension there, and he feels a little breathless as he rests his head down against the pillow. 

 

“Just let me relax you,” you murmur, abandoning the oil now and leaning down over him so that you’re practically lying on top of him. Then you slowly begin to make your way down his body…

 

*

 

When Mycroft wakes that morning it is to find that he’s stark naked, though still covered a little by the duvet, with his head pressed into his pillow and the French national anthem blaring into his ears. 

 

He groans groggily and lifts his head up off the pillow to find that you’re crouched beside him, fully dressed and hopefully fully packed, and that the racket that originates from France is coming from your phone, which you're holding out towards him. 

 

“It’s today, can you believe it? We’re actually going today!” you grin at. 

 

Mycroft’s definitely not feeling awake enough to appreciate that fact. “Sometimes,” he begins, as he rolls onto his back, “I think that marrying you will be like what it would be like if I married my brother.” 

 

He rubs at his eyes now, fully expecting you to just brush the comment off as you usually would. It isn't until he hears the click of you turning the anthem off and all falls silent, and when he realizes that _you've_ fallen silent too, that it suddenly dawns on him that you might actually be upset by it. So he rolls onto his side, but already you’re straightening up and making to turn away from him, your head bent, whilst your hand clutches your phone close to your leg. 

 

“F/N, I-I'm sorry,” he says, scrambling to sit up now, and his heart beats apprehensively in his chest, his eyes fixing themselves onto your back, whilst his mind goes over what he’d just said. For, whilst now, in hindsight he can of course see why you might be sensitive to it he can’t understand why you’d reacted so dramatically. 

 

You stop, but you don’t turn back around to him. Instead your free hand clenches into a trembling fist, which only makes Mycroft feel even more alarmed, whilst you say, “What you said to me just now, that’s not funny, not to me, not after what happened at Christmas…”

 

“I wasn't thinking,” Mycroft says, uttering the first thing that comes to mind because he still feels confused. 

 

“Well maybe you should,” you say as you turn back to him. Then you walk across to him, dropping your phone onto the duvet as you do so, before you sit down on the side of the bed in front of him. 

 

He shuffles across a little towards you. Then, as you duck your head, he presses the back of his hand against your cheek. “F/N, what is it? What’s brought all this on?” he asks.

 

You hesitate a moment, your hand toying a little with the fabric of the duvet. But then when he turns his hand around, choosing to cup your cheek instead, whilst his thumb brushes against it softly, you smile for a singular moment, before you look up at him and confess, “I wish you’d try and talk to him again,” and Mycroft draws his hand back, his face serious. 

 

He’s barely spoken to Sherlock since Christmas. It’s not from a lack of trying on his part though. For sure, it might have been because of Mummy and you that he’d gone over to see his brother, but he’d still gone over there nonetheless, numerous times in fact. But his little brother seems to want nothing more to do with him. 

 

“I've tried, you know I have,” he tells you finally, placing his hand delicately over yours on the bed now. 

 

“I know,” you huff, “I just wish you’d try _again_ ,” and there’s a bit of a pause now, before you confess, “I want him at the wedding Myc.”

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath of his own, before he takes his hand off yours and pushes it back through his hair. “I wouldn't worry about it my dear, I'm sure he’ll be there, for _you_ ,” he says, and there’s a dark kind of bitterness to his tone. 

 

 _“Myc,”_ you protest, for you hate these odd moments of insecurity that come up every now and again when he acts as if Sherlock’s a threat to your relationship. For Sherlock’s _never_ been a threat to your relationship. Whilst you also hate the fact that Sherlock’s still been talking to you, but not to his brother, ever since things kicked off. For _you’re_ the one who rejected Sherlock, not Mycroft, and though of course you still want to be friends with the man, you wish that he would at least act more sensibly about this. Instead of making you feel stuck in the middle between him and Mycroft all the time. 

 

“I know, I know,” Mycroft gets out, raising his hands placatingly now. 

 

“I've chosen _you_ ,” you tell him, in the hope that this fact might finally penetrate his mind. 

 

“I know,” he huffs out in a bit of a sigh, before he rolls away from you and makes to get up from the other side of the bed, clearly wanting to avoid the issue. 

 

“Maybe you’ll talk to him after Paris?” you suggest, hoping that he might be able to promise you that much at least. 

 

“Maybe,” he breathes, in a lighter tone as he looks back at you quickly. 

 

But though you’re not fully satisfied with his answer there’s really no time to be having more of an in depth conversation about it all, so instead of pushing the issue any further you just nod at him. Then you watch as he heads off towards the bathroom for a shower, before you leave the room too. 

 

*

 

Paris in March is beautiful. 

 

When you get to your room though, leading the way and having the privilege of stepping into it first, you can’t help but let out a little gasp, for it’s beautiful too. 

 

The bed takes pride of place in the centre, its black headboard, grey bed covering and pillows being nicely offset by the red-patterned wallpaper that's directly behind it and the white wall to its right. Whilst you feel sure that it will look even more astonishing when the lights that are attached to the wall either side of the bed are switched on. A long, full-length mirror lays to the right, whilst there’s a small desk off to the left, overlooking the window. A door, directly by the left hand side of the bed leads to the small but gleaming bathroom. Whilst a polished wardrobe, chest of drawers and shelves, which provide a kettle and various sized cups and glasses, lays just to the front of the bed. 

 

One of the first things you do, after taking the room in and leaving your bag by the foot of the bed, is to rush to see what the view’s like from the window. 

 

It turns out that it’s even more perfect than you could have imagined. For underneath the blue sky, and in between the sights of other buildings and the steadily streaming traffic, you can make out the triangular top of the Eiffel Tower. You let out a little breath. For though you've been to France and Paris before, that time had been quite different to now, for that time you’d been on a school-trip, and you definitely hadn't had a view like _this_ outside your hotel window. 

 

“I believe it’s just a ten minute walk,” Mycroft murmurs, nodding to the Eiffel Tower now as his hands snake around your waist from behind you. 

 

You turn your head to grin at him, and in that moment Mycroft can forgive you for being a little over-excited last night and this morning. Forgive you because as he looks into your eyes, which are sparkling full of both life and hope, it’s as if he’s just made all your dreams come true, and he couldn't be any happier. 

 

You twist around to peck him on the cheek, and his body relaxes against yours, his eyes closing.

 

“Thank you,” you breathe, and he knows that you’re not just thanking him for the view right then, but for putting up with your behaviour too. 

 

“You’re most welcome,” he says, as he opens his eyes again. But then, as he thinks of something, he feels the need to say, “I _do_ , however have to go shortly”-

 

 _“Already?_ We only just got here.” 

 

He pulls away from you then, feeling a little guilty. Then he pulls a bit of a face to try and placate you as he says, “Yes, well unfortunately I have to go and meet some of my colleagues. They’re having a bit of a buffet and an initial meet and greet, before we get down to business. Partners aren't allowed, not even ones as beautiful as you I'm afraid.”

 

Your lip quirks upward automatically at his charming remark, but still you feel a little disappointed. 

 

“It’ll give you a good chance to unpack though my love, and to do a little exploration of your own if you so wish,” Mycroft says, clearly trying to appease you. 

 

“The only thing I think I’ll be exploring is the bath,” you reply with a bit of a snort. 

 

“I only wish I could join you,” Mycroft says, shifting his position a little, and beginning to look sorely tempted to just stay with you, even if it is only for a few moments longer. 

 

But, not only do you know of course that he can’t, even if it does sound more like a social thing than a work one, you also know that you’re probably being a little harsh on him. For after all he’d been perfectly upfront with you since the very beginning, and you’d known right from the off that this was going to be a combination of work and pleasure. Still, you can’t help but feel glad that after the next two days are through you’ll have Mycroft all to yourself for the whole weekend, before you return to London that Monday. 

 

“Maybe another time,” you say, trying to be kinder, and Mycroft, clearly feeling a little relieved, smiles. 

 

Then he steps forwards and says, “Not maybe my dear, _definitely_ ,” and you can’t help but smile more at that, feeling pleased. 

 

He pecks you on the lips, before he goes to do a quick check of his briefcase for work. 

 

Then, after pressing one final lingering kiss to your lips, he’s gone. 

 

You keep yourself busy for a bit, unpacking and once again admiring the view from the window, but it’s funny, for even though you’re usually good at being on your own you can’t help but miss him. 

 

The feeling washes over you more in the bath, and you can’t help but think of the issue between Mycroft and Sherlock again and wish, not for the first time that some magic solution would just come to you and that you’d be able to solve it. Then, for one clear panging moment, you feel sad. So sad that some tears even leave your eyes, and you curse yourself. For you’re in Paris at last, you've been looking forward to this trip, and you feel determined to not let the silly issue between Mycroft and Sherlock, which quite frankly you should have left behind as soon as you stepped on the train, spoil it now. 

 

*

 

It’s a few hours later and you’re lying on the bed in a t-shirt and jeans with stripy socks on, flicking through the guidebook that you’d brought with you, when there comes a knock on the door. 

 

You swing off the bed, feeling a little better already, for of course you know who it is. But still you can’t help but let out a little breath when you see Mycroft standing there, looking a little sheepish as he holds a long-stemmed single rose in his hand. Then you can’t help but blush when he gives it to you with the teasing words, “A rose by any other name...” before he trails off. You take it from him with a smile. Then you listen as he goes on, “If you wouldn't mind accompanying me I've booked us a table downstairs. I rather thought that after that I might take you for a walk.”

 

“Did you now?” you quip, as something playful shines in your eyes. “And eating again? Was the buffet that rubbish then?” you ask, before your eyes flick down to the rose as you hold it up and breathe in its scent. 

 

“Yes, unfortunately it was rather tragic. You’d think that they’d have better buffets in France of all places wouldn't you?” Mycroft quips, and you smile, twirling the rose in between your fingers. “Are you more or less ready to go?” he asks. 

 

“I just need to put on some shoes. I’ll put this in some water too,” you tell him, giving him a quick smile, before you turn to duck back into the room. 

 

You fetch one of the tallest glasses from the room, before you go into the bathroom to fill it up a little with some water. You slip the rose carefully inside it, before you place it gently on the desk. 

 

“I’d put something a little warmer on too if I were you, it’s getting rather chilly out there,” Mycroft advises, stepping forwards a little, whilst he keeps the door open with his hand. 

 

“Mm,” you mumble a little distractedly, giving a quick glance out of the window at the now paling sky, before you sit on the bed and bend down so that you can pull your shoes towards you.

 

Mycroft smiles at you knowingly. Then he lets the door slip shut, before he goes across to the wardrobe.

 

“What are you doing?” you ask, with your legs crossed as you attempt to ram on one of your shoes. Then you blow a strand of hair, which had gone into your mouth when you’d spoken out of the way. 

 

“I know you,” Mycroft says, peering back over his shoulder now. “You’ll never dress up as warmly as you should unless I see to it that you do.”

 

You smile and nod, knowing that what he’s just said is quite true, and Mycroft turns back to the wardrobe. 

 

When you stand a moment later though you feel surprised when he turns and passes you your favourite hoodie, for you’d expected him to pick something with a tighter fit to it. 

 

Yet as he explains a moment later, “It may not be the most sophisticated of things, but it’s warm,” and you smile as you take it gratefully from him. 

 

* 

 

The eating area in the downstairs of the hotel is small but comfortable. Square, wooden tables, some pressed up against each other, others just giving room for two people with colourful potted plants on the centre of each one are spread out amongst it with black chairs, whilst a TV that’s up on the wall plays the France 24 news channel at a low volume. 

 

“So, what did you get up to, whilst I was away?” Mycroft asks just after he’s finished his latest mouthful of chicken piperade with pilau rice. 

 

You finish chewing your own mouthful of the meal and swallow it, whilst your eyes flick in between him and your dinner. “Not much,” you shrug, feeling a little self-conscious, not to mention silly as you remember how you’d spent most of the time dwelling on the issue between Mycroft and Sherlock rather than appreciating and getting excited for where you actually were. 

 

 _“No?”_ Mycroft questions, and he feels a little concerned now, for he’d half-expected you to be buzzing with energy and excitedly talking about what you’d done and what you’d already seen, not to mention telling him about your plans for the next day. But instead you seem rather indifferent to the fact that you’re currently sitting in what’s considered to be the most romantic city in the world, and he chooses to sip at some of his red wine rather than carry on eating, so that he can further try to establish what might be the cause of your odd mood as he waits for your answer. 

 

You bite at your lip and shake your head. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asks, and he feels worried now as he sets his wine glass back down upon the table. For he hadn't been expecting this sort of behaviour whilst you were both away. If anything he’d been expecting to have to try and calm you down, not to have to uplift you, and he almost wishes that he could have the excitement of last night and this morning. For even you being annoying would be better than _this_ \- 

 

“Yeah,” you say, interrupting his thoughts as you try and pull yourself together more, and you nod a bit as you look across at him.

 

Mycroft however isn't convinced, and he asks, “Are you sure?” before he adds, “You didn't go out, whilst I was away?” as he tries to get more clarification on the matter. For perhaps you’d seen or heard something that you hadn't liked and that had upset you. You do seem to be feeling a bit more sensitive today.

 

Yet that theory becomes nothing as soon as you say, “No, I just stayed in the room,” and he can tell that you’re being honest with him. But he can barely get back into pondering over what the matter might be, for then you attempt to brush it all off by saying, “Don’t worry, I'm just a little tired, I'm sure that I’ll be back to myself tomorrow,” for you don’t want to bring up the issue again, you know it will only annoy him and you’d rather just try and start to appreciate where you are if you can. 

 

Mycroft isn't entirely convinced that your tiredness is to blame for whatever this is however, but he can tell that you’re not up for discussing the matter in any depth, so he simply says, “Perhaps our little walk will help you get more into the swing of things.”

 

“Yeah,” you say giving him a bit of a forced smile now, but you can tell that he’s not entirely convinced that you believe such a thing, and you swallow and duck your head again, wishing as you do so that you could just forget the situation between the brothers for a few days and enjoy yourself. But you know yourself too, and you can tell that you’ll be hard-pushed to forget such a thing so completely. 

 

*

 

You may not have felt like yourself for much of the day, but getting out of the hotel helps, and from the moment you leave it and start to walk along the cobbled streets you begin to feel more relaxed. For this is what you’d imagined whenever you’d closed your eyes and tried to picture what your time in France with Mycroft might be like-romantic walks underneath the darkening sky, and culture surrounding you. 

 

Mycroft ends up taking you alongside the Notre Dame cathedral, and as you see how beautiful the place looks, even in the semi-darkness, you let out a breath of amazement. 

 

“I thought you’d like it,” he smiles, feeling more content that you seem happier now, and perhaps you really _had_ been tired he starts to think. But something in the back of his head still tells him that he needs to keep an eye on you. 

 

“I do,” you breathe, and you like it even more when he takes your hand a moment later, before he leads you across to some steps. 

 

He lets go of your hand and gestures for you to go down them first. 

 

You do so; taking your time and glancing up as the cathedral slowly disappears from view and you begin to make your way along the river Seine instead.

 

It’s just the two of you on this little stretch, and with the sky darkening, the knowledge that there’s such a beautiful and atmospheric building so close by, not to mention the soft gurgling of the river, it feels heavenly. 

 

You link your arm through Mycroft’s and let out a sigh of contentment as you tilt your head down, and as Mycroft looks down at you he knows that whatever was going on earlier there’s no need for words now, for there’s just this, and right now he knows that _this_ , is more than enough for the both of you. 

 

*

 

Mycroft leaves early for work the next morning, but with the romance of the night before still fresh in your head you don’t mind. Even spending a moment in bed just dreamily staring up at the ceiling as your phone plays, _'La Vie en rose,'_ by Édith Piaf, whilst you re-create last night's walk in your head. 

 

It’s only when you've left the hotel and when you begin to do a little exploring of your own, discovering that the street the hotel’s on is crammed full of restaurants, shops and small supermarkets, that those rose-tinted glasses begin to fade and you begin to feel a little lonely again, wishing that he was with you. Wishing that this was just a holiday and that he was with you to see the little moments you find beautiful, from a flock of pigeons taking flight from the middle of a cobbled street, to an old couple appreciatively admiring the contents of a bakery window. Whilst you also wish that he was there whenever you see something pretty in a shop window, or whenever you discover a nice little café that you could have both sat inside and whiled away the time in, as you talked about everything and nothing. 

 

A voice in your head chides you, telling you that you’re going soft. For though you've never exactly been the typical hardened police officer, in fact your colleagues and Lestrade especially have told you more than once over the years that sometimes they feel you’re far too nice to be doing the job, you've somehow managed to hold your own and gain people’s respect all the same. But admiring pigeons and old couples? Surely that’s a new low even for you? And that’s not even to mention the odd way that you keep missing Mycroft. For yes you've missed him sometimes when he’s been away with work, but never with such a keening longing before, or to mention how it suddenly feels more important to you that the matter between the brothers should get resolved, with something inside you even feeling keen to get back home so that you might be able to rid yourself of it once and for all. 

 

You sigh then, for though it isn't like you to be so soft it _is_ just like you to be worrying about things when you’d rather not be concerning yourself about them. Then, as you inwardly call yourself an idiot, you decide to loop back and do the short walk to the Eiffel Tower, in the hope that that will get your mind off how silly you've been feeling. 

 

But as soon as you get there you don’t feel like being there any more, or indeed in the mood to appreciate it properly, so you just go back to the hotel. 

 

You spend the rest of the day in your room, feeling completely miserable. For here you are, in the place that you've been looking forward to coming to for months- indeed you've even been attempting to cook some French cuisine over the past few weeks in your excitement-and because of some unfathomable reason, you’re feeling utterly wretched. 

 

When Mycroft returns late that afternoon it is to find you sitting on the corner of the bed with your shoes off and your socked feet scraping against the floor. Your head meanwhile hangs down, whilst your eyes barely flick up to him as he enters. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ he checks, for although he’s been wondering about how you'd behaved yesterday and wondering about what you might have been getting up to today he’s barely had much of a chance to dwell on it, being at work and all. But now the concern that he’d felt for you last night comes rushing back to him, and he hurriedly puts down his case and umbrella beside the now closed door so that he might be able to go over to you. 

 

“How was your day?” you ask, clearly trying to make more of an effort as you lift your head up. 

 

But the relief that Mycroft had felt at you acting a little more normally is short-lived, and as soon as he sees the tears in your eyes he waves a hand to dismiss your question. Then he nudges against you so that he can sit down, before he pulls you onto his lap. 

 

“Sorry,” you sniff as his arms go around to support your back, “I don’t know what’s wrong. All day I've just been feeling really stupid because I've been admiring ridiculous things like pigeons and missing you and”-

 

 _“Well,”_ Mycroft interrupts, rocking you on his lap now with a bit of a tentative smile on his face, “I can’t explain the pigeons”-and you let out a snort now- _“But,”_ Mycroft continues with even more of a smile on his face, “I _do_ think that you’re being unnecessarily harsh on yourself, I mean I'm quite sure that _I’d_ miss me if I wasn't me already”- 

 

You let out even more of a snort at that. Then you press a small kiss to his nose, which makes him wriggle pleasantly underneath you, before you ask, “Oh you would, would you?” with your mouth close to his, and you both sound and feel a lot more flirtatious and playful. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” Mycroft says, liking your new attitude a lot, before you both have a little tussle as you try to be the first to get to nibble on the others lips. 

 

Neither of you win in the end, and you let out a giggle as Mycroft deliberately allows you to overbalance him and you end up lying on top of him on the bed. 

 

“I've booked us a place at Georges restaurant tonight,” Mycroft says, rolling over now so that he’s the one on top of you. 

 

“Yeah? Where’s that?” you ask in between wriggling and gasping as he places a line of open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

 

“Centre George’s Pompidou,” Mycroft replies as he lifts his head away from your neck, before he lets out a bit of a groan in the next moment when you buck your hips against his. 

 

“Still no idea,” you get out, before you pull his face down towards you so that you can kiss him. 

 

His lips come against yours in a clumsy fashion at first, before they find proper purchase. Then your tongues tap against each other’s teasingly and you make these little sounds that make Mycroft’s head spin, or that could just be the fact that you surge up against him every time you make each one. 

 

“I think you’ll like it,” he says, finally pulling away from you a little. 

 

“Great,” you say in a voice that tells him quite clearly that you’re now barely concentrating on the conversation at hand, before you attempt to tug him down again, this time by grabbing onto his tie. 

 

He only kisses you briefly again, before he pulls away. This time saying, “I think we should leave the christening of the bed until tomorrow night don’t you?” as he raises his eyebrows. You look a bit disappointed, and almost as if you’re tempted to tell him to cancel tonight’s dinner plans altogether. So he decides to try and win you over more with the teasing promise, “After all tomorrow’s a Friday and I hear that’s the start of the weekend…” and he licks his lips rather suggestively at you now, something hungry shining in his eyes. 

 

“Okay,” you relent, before you kiss him quickly again. 

 

“I promise it’ll be worth it,” he says, because he can tell that underneath it all you’re still a little disappointed about him postponing such activity. 

 

“Taking me to have dinner with the French President are you?” you quip, watching as he draws back completely now, before he offers you his hand to help pull you up. 

 

“Not quite,” he says with a mysterious smile, before he tugs on your hand, and your bodies come to bump into each others, which instigates yet another kiss between you, before you finally draw away from each other so that you can get ready for your night out. 

 

*

 

You take the escalators from the second floor up to the restaurant. You’re wearing a pretty dress that you’d bought especially for the trip, whilst Mycroft’s wearing his most expensive black suit, a maroon waistcoat, white shirt and black tie. A silver chain of a pocket watch is also visible, and you have to admit that you can barely take your eyes off him. 

 

“See something you like?” he quips, feeling pleased when he notices such a thing as you both go up the escalator, and you bat at his arm with a bashful grin on your face. 

 

You do however end up breathing, “Wow,” and end up appreciating something else altogether when you reach the top of the escalator. 

 

For the design of the restaurant may be minimalist, but it really _does_ catch your attention. White tables and chairs fill the space, with a single long-stem rose on each table. What really catches your attention though is the use of aluminium sheeting that almost serves to separate the space out into little sections. 

 

“It’s supposed to represent the valves of a heart,” Mycroft informs you when he catches sight of you looking at it with your head slightly tilted, and he brushes a hand rather deliberately against his waistcoat now.

 

Catching his meaning you ask, “Is that why you’re wearing red?” as your lips quirk upward. 

 

“It might be,” he smiles. 

 

You open your mouth. But neither of you get the chance to say anything else, for a short, French waiter dressed in a black waistcoat over a white shirt with smart black trousers, and who's carrying a couple of menus close to his chest, chooses that moment to hurry up to you.

 

“Good evening. You have a table booked?” he asks, his accent a reasonably modest one. 

 

“Yes, underneath the name of Holmes,” Mycroft says, drawing himself up a little. 

 

The waiter nods, before he beckons you both across to a podium where he checks you off the list. “Ah, yes, you have a table on our rooftop terrace tonight, so I hope that you will enjoy our spectacular views,” he says, looking up at you both again. 

 

You look at Mycroft with both surprise and wonder on your face. 

 

“The lady didn't know?” the waiter asks, looking in between you both now with surprise and amusement on his face. 

 

“No, no she didn't,” Mycroft replies, peering down at you with a smile, his hand now on your back. 

 

The waiter smiles at you both, clearly feeling both delighted and excited as he says, “In that case Madam I fear you’re in for a very special surprise. The views of France are magnificent at this hour,” and he turns now to lead the way to the terrace. 

 

You grab onto Mycroft’s arm, still feeling thrilled, before you give it a quick squeeze and breathe, “Thank you.” 

 

Mycroft just smiles at you. Then, as you let go of his arm, he increases his pressure slightly on your back, before together you make to move closer and closer towards the terrace. 

 

Once you leave the relative warmth of the restaurant and step through the door, which the waiter kindly holds open for you, you feel as if your breath has been taken away from you as you step onto the terrace. Not only because the air’s a little chilly, but because all around you, you can see the shapes of all the buildings. They look more defined than ever as the sky slowly grows darker as if someone’s gone around them with a fine-liner. Whilst the twinkling of lights both seem far brighter than any star and seem to go on for miles. All around you, you can hear the low thrum of life, and standing right there you feel as if you’re right in the heart of it all. 

 

Mycroft increases the pressure slightly on your back, so you tear your gaze away from the view and look up at him. 

 

He peers down at you, his eyes softly shining in the dim light, and he looks a little tentative as he waits for your reaction. 

 

“I love it,” you smile, and he lets out a little breath of relief, before he smiles down at you. 

 

“Your table,” the waiter calls, and you start a little. For you’d been so engrossed in the view that you hadn't even felt him leaving your side, and you notice that once more he looks pleased by the interaction between Mycroft and you as he beckons you both over to a side table that’s close to a low wall. From it you’ll be able to look out over the top and appreciate the view as you eat. 

 

Mycroft and you give each other another little smile, before you both begin to make your way over there. 

 

Mycroft pulls your seat out for you. Then, once you’re both sat down the waiter passes you your menus, whilst saying a, “One for you Sir,” and, “One for you Madam,” as he does so. “I will be back presently,” he announces then, “But can I fetch you a drink in the meantime? A bottle of one of our finest wines perhaps?” 

 

You let Mycroft order the wine, for he knows much more about these things than you do. The last time you’d taken it upon yourself to order some in a restaurant back home it had been a disaster. Mycroft had taken one sniff of it and then dismissed it. He hadn't even tasted it, and the memory still annoys you now. 

 

Then, once the waiter’s bustled off, to make yourself feel better you look out across Paris once more, and as you feel instantly calmer you can’t help but hope that you’ll be able to remember this sight for the rest of your life. For it’s astonishingly beautiful. 

 

“You like it then?” Mycroft asks with a soft smile. 

 

You nod a little distractedly. Then, when you feel like you’re being a little rude since it’s down to Mycroft that you can see the view in the first place, you force your eyes from the view and back to him. You’d meant to say that you loved it again, but as soon as you catch sight of the gentle, studious way that he’s looking at you, the words, “Sorry about earlier,” tumble out of your mouth. 

 

He looks at you a moment more, no doubt trying to figure out what’s suddenly made you bring up what it had seemed like you’d wanted to avoid talking about. “It’s fine,” he begins tentatively, and you can tell that he wants to probe you further now that you've brought the matter up yourself, and you feel both apprehensive and a sense that you’d quite like to get it off your chest at the same time, so you nod. But then, before he can do so the waiter returns with the wine, and you find that you don’t feel suddenly quite as willing to breach the topic any more, so your gaze falls back down to the table. You can feel Mycroft looking at you as the waiter’s pouring the wine, but still you don’t look at him. “Thank you,” Mycroft says once the waiter’s filled up your glasses.

 

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks. 

 

Mycroft’s still looking at you, and he has to force his gaze away from you in order to answer the waiter’s question. “Perhaps you could give us a moment more?” he says, before he quickly looks back at you again. For even though he can tell that despite breaching the topic you don’t wish to discuss it, your unwillingness suddenly only makes him more keen to discuss such a thing, and to find out what on earth could have disrupted all the excitement that you’d previously been feeling. 

 

You can feel the waiter looking at you too. No doubt he’s wondering why you don’t look as excited about the view any more, and feeling a little silly you blush, ducking your head down even further. 

 

“Certainly,” the waiter says in response to Mycroft’s question, and he looks back at you both briefly, before he scurries off. 

 

Feeling awkward, the first thing that you do once he leaves is to take a sip of your wine, and even though it’s a long one you find that Mycroft’s still looking at you when you put your glass back down on. 

 

“Mm it’s nice,” you tell him, with a bit of a forced smile and an awkward nod, before you swallow. For even though it _is_ nice you’re not in the mood to enjoy it now. 

 

Mycroft swallows and nods. “You would tell me if there was anything that I needed to be concerned about wouldn't you?” he asks, giving you one last chance to be honest with him. “I mean, what happened yesterday and earlier, with you, with you feeling that way, that wasn't anything I need to be worried about was it?” and you see that he looks both anxious and tentative now. 

 

“Of course not. It was just me being silly,” you say with another forced smile. 

 

He stares hard at you some more, and it feels as if he’s trying to look into your very soul, so you lower your head. But still he stares at you. “The thing is F/N,” he says, trying to be honest with you himself now to further encourage you, and you look up at him, “I'm not sure that I believe that it was.” You open your mouth, but even _you’re_ not sure of what you’re about to say. So you feel rather glad in one sense when he goes on, “You've been rather sad at times ever since we got here, and you were so looking forward to it. I'm struggling to understand”-

 

“I guess I have been missing you like I said earlier,” you say, choosing to tell him once more about the odd issue that you feel like you can’t explain, rather than bringing up what you feel is really bothering you, which is of course the issue between him and Sherlock. Then, when you can tell that he doesn't really know how to respond, you go on, “I just wish sometimes that we’d come on a proper holiday here together,” with some frustration in your tone, and Mycroft shifts his position now, looking guilty. “I know we've got the weekend,” you add, “And I know you made things clear from the start. But, well, I guess I just wish that we could be spending all of it together and seeing the same things”-

 

“The pigeons,” he interrupts, trying to make you both feel a little better. 

 

 _“Yes,”_ you admit with a bit of a smile, before your face darkens a bit as you go on, “I know you probably think that I'm being silly”-

 

“I don’t,” Mycroft interrupts, taking your hand in his now. “But is that really all there is to it? Is you missing me really to blame for all this behaviour?” for he still doesn't feel convinced. 

 

You swallow and shift your position uncomfortably. Then, knowing that the time’s come and you _really_ should be honest with him, you say, “I guess, well I guess I've just been thinking a lot about the issue between Sherlock and you”-

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft interrupts, clearly annoyed and regretting pushing you to confess what had been troubling you now if this is what it is, and he runs a hand through his hair.

 

“I've been trying not to,” you tell him quickly, “But I can’t help it. I just want to get it sorted y’know?” 

 

“I told you that I’d consider trying to talk to him again once we get home,” he says, looking down at his menu now and twisting two of his fingers around the stem of his wine glass.

 

You sigh. 

 

 _“What?”_ Mycroft asks, looking up at you again. 

 

You swallow and shift your position. Then you say in a rather dispirited tone, “I know you did, and I'm grateful for that. But as much as I want to believe you, I can’t help think that things will just go back to the way they were as soon as we get back home. You’ll have your mother and me telling you that you should go around and see him, and you’ll make half-an-effort to, but most of the time you’ll just say that you’re too busy to or”-

 

“It’s nice to know that you've got so much faith in me,” Mycroft says darkly, before he looks down at his menu again. 

 

“I _do_ have faith in you,” you say, feeling annoyed now and grabbing at his hand, “I just don’t want things to go on like this, I know you must be miserable about it”- 

 

“I'm _not_ miserable about it, and in any case, even if I was, I don’t see what it’s got to do with you, he’s not _your_ brother,” Mycroft says, reverting to his cold self now as he tugs his hand stubbornly away from yours and puts it beneath the table so that you won’t be able to grab it again. 

 

“Oh cheers,” you say huffing out a breath and folding your arms. Then you get out, “Thank you for thinking that just because he’s not my brother I'm completely unaffected by it,” before you lean across to him so that you can hiss, “He’s my friend, and _you’re_ my fiancé, and you clearly don’t have any idea of how you not talking to each other has been eating away at me. _Especially_ since we got here and I haven’t been in work and I've had more time to think about it. Its been driving me crazy, and if you still think that, that’s me being unaffected by it then you can go fuck yourself.”

 

Mycroft swallows as you lean back now. Swallows when he sees how angry and dark your face is. Then he leans back a bit and withdraws his hands to his lap, before he says, “I'm sorry,” because he simply doesn’t know what else to say. For he’d had no idea of how much you’d clearly let the matter get to you. No idea of how his half-hearted behaviour had been troubling you. 

 

You stare at him steadily for a moment. Then, when you can see that he’s sincere, you shift your position and say, “Good,” in a crisp fashion, before you reach for your menu. 

 

Mycroft swallows again. Then, thinking that he should say something and try to atone for his behaviour, he clears his throat and says, “F/N, I-I truly am sorry, I had no idea, I didn't realize that it was having such an effect on you”-

 

“Well it is,” you get out, tears beginning to leak out of your eyes now, and Mycroft swallows, before he reaches inside the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a fresh handkerchief. He passes it to you silently. “Thank you,” you sniff with the last of your dignity still intact as you take it from him. 

 

He nods and watches you as you dry your eyes for a moment. Then he says, “I’ll really”- and he breaks off for a moment, his tongue flicking across his lips as he ponders. “I’ll really try to make more of an effort when we go home. I promise you I’ll go and see him, and if I don’t then you…you have permission to-to”- and he’s forced to break off again now as he fails to find the right words. 

 

“I have permission to punish you,” you conclude, your eyes darkening dangerously as you add, “And I will Mycroft, because this has been going on for long enough and quite frankly I'm getting sick of it all.”

 

Mycroft swallows and nods. 

 

Then, feeling more satisfied at his slightly terrified face, you turn your attention to your menu again. You look up however when Mycroft says in the next moment, “Yes, that’s probably a good idea, Sebastian has been looking across at us,” and he pulls his own menu towards him now. 

 

 _“Sebastian?”_ you ask, feeling puzzled now. 

 

“Our waiter,” Mycroft fills you in, glancing up at you. But then, when he sees that you’re rolling your eyes at his know-it-all behaviour he says, “Honestly my dear, he’s wearing a name badge,” and he looks rather arrogantly bored now as he begins to flip through the menu with his long fingers. 

 

“Yes, because I'm sure you can’t tell anything else just by looking at him,” you snort, looking down at your own menu again, “You can probably tell that he’s single”-

 

“He’s engaged actually, like us,” Mycroft interrupts, and your eyes flick back up to him now to catch sight of the way that he’s looking at you intently, before they go back to the menu again as a smile toys around your lips. 

 

“All right, that he’s engaged but instead of living with his fiancée, he’s living with his pet gerbil and he secretly dreams of running his own restaurant,” you invent, still looking down at your menu. But as soon as you come to the end of your words you can’t help but look up at Mycroft again to see how you've done. 

 

“It’s fiancé actually,” Mycroft begins with a bit of a satisfied smile upon his face as he looks at you, “And he’s co-habiting not with a gerbil but with a budgie that he’s yet to train to say anything useful, as well as two old friends of his. He dreams of not being a restaurant owner my dear, but an artist.” 

 

“And you can tell all that by?” you ask, feeling a little bit annoyed and amused all at the same time.

 

“A magician never gives away his secrets,” Mycroft quips, turning his attention back to his menu again. 

 

You smile, feeling glad that things seem to have become pleasanter between you. Then you make to peruse the menu some more, and you’re just pondering over what ‘meuniere’ means when you let out a little breath. For suddenly you can feel Mycroft’s shoe tapping against your leg. 

 

“I thought we could make things more interesting?” he suggests once you look up at him. 

 

“All right,” you murmur with a small smile, “But just remember that this is a family restaurant Mr. Holmes,” you remind him. 

 

“There I was thinking that Grandma’s Footsteps _was_ a family game,” he smiles, before he looks down at his menu again. 

 

Your smile just grows at that. For you know full well that Mycroft likes to play his own version of Grandma’s Footsteps in restaurants, and the thought that you might be playing it tonight, in this setting, sends a little thrill of pleasure down your spine. 

 

“Are you ready to order?” Sebastian’s voice suddenly asks, and you start a little in surprise, for you’d been too caught up in thinking of the pleasure to come to see him approaching you. 

 

Mycroft snorts at your reaction, and the energy between you instantly goes up a level. Then, wanting to get your own back, you lean back and slowly begin to inch your leg towards his. 

 

“Yes, I’ll have the duck with”- Mycroft begins, before he abruptly breaks off, his mouth opening and closing and his cheeks flushing with colour as he feels your leg making contact with his. You smirk, before you duck your heeled shoe underneath his trouser leg and begin to tease at the skin there. Mycroft swallows. 

 

“Is everything all right Sir?” Sebastian asks. 

 

“Y-Yes,” Mycroft gets out, his voice coming out a fraction higher than normal, before he hurriedly clears his throat. You fight back a smile. “Yes, anyway, as I was just”- Mycroft attempts, before he again breaks off as you begin to press harder against his leg, and a thrill of pleasure runs down you when you notice that he’s gripping onto the edge of the table with his fingers very hard, his knuckles turning bone white. He clears his throat again. “As I was just saying,” he continues, shifting his position now and drawing his leg away from your wandering foot as he does so, “I’ll have the duck with caramel and coconut.” Your foot had been trying to make contact with his leg again, but he looks so relieved at having finally managed to order that you desist, still with a mischievous smile upon your face. 

 

“As for you Madam?” Sebastian asks, turning to look at you now that he’s finished jotting Mycroft’s order down. 

 

Your face falters slightly. For you’d barely paid any attention to the menu at all, and so you look down at it quickly again. 

 

“She’s a little embarrassed, she barely speaks any of the language,” Mycroft says, clearly trying to get his own back on you now, before he goes to sip at his wine. 

 

Sebastian gives you a little awkward smile. 

 

You throw Mycroft a bit of a dark look. Then, whilst you try to summon up everything you can remember from when you’d listened to that CD that was supposed to assist you with your French language before you came, you say, “I’ll have the sole meuniere.” Mycroft snorts into his wine at your pronunciation and you give him a quick kick to the shin, which makes a little breath leave his mouth and flutter around the rim. His eyes meanwhile instantly water. Feeling more satisfied you turn back to Sebastian and say, “That will be all,” with a smile upon your face. 

 

Sebastian, looking as if he doesn’t quite know where to look, just gives you a little jerky nod, before he takes both of your menus and moves away as quickly as possible. 

 

You go to sip at your wine. 

 

“You've perked up,” Mycroft comments as soon as he’s blinked enough times to recover. 

 

“Well, I _do_ love a good game of Grandma’s Footsteps,” you say around the rim of your wine glass, before you comment, “And it’s always _more_ interesting when you’re in a position to get caught.” 

 

“It is,” Mycroft agrees, as you put your wine glass down now, “That’s the thing I love most about the game in fact. As it happens though, I do believe it’s _my_ turn now,” he murmurs, and your lips quirk upwards, the fingers on one of your hands curling around the bottom of the stem of your wine glass.

 

Then you just wait. Wait to feel Mycroft’s leg coming against yours. You start a moment later however when you feel not his leg, but his fingers as they gently come to add their weight to your lap. A little breath escapes you as you begin to feel him rubbing there, and your eyes flutter shut in spite of themselves. 

 

But then, once your senses start to right themselves once more, you open your eyes just as quickly, whilst you say in a low voice, “Mycroft I feel like the whole of France can see us”-

 

“Then let’s give them a good show,” Mycroft purrs, shifting slightly closer to you now so that his knees bump into yours, and you smile a little, before you gasp out as his fingers come to lift up the hem of your dress. 

 

They come to brush against the skin of your leg, and wanting to have some fun of your own, you slide your own hand down until your fingers come into contact with his knee. 

 

Mycroft’s lips quirk upwards as you do so, before he lets out a little, _‘Ah,’_ of surprise when your fingers run up to give the growing bulge in his trousers a quick squeeze, before they run back down to his knee again. 

 

You smile, before you make a little sound yourself when he begins to increase his movements against your leg, and your eyes immediately flutter shut once more, whilst your hand starts to do its own movements against Mycroft’s knee. 

 

Then, as your eyes open again and you fix on each other you begin to match each other’s speed, both of you beginning to jerk against each other on occasion, but-

 

“I'm afraid there’s no sole meuniere to offer you tonight,” Sebastian says, having suddenly appeared by you both again, and both Mycroft's and your hands desist their work at once. 

 

You swallow, feeling both flustered and flushed as you tug your hand back so that you can take the menu that Sebastian offers and begin to peruse it once more.

 

Mycroft’s hand moves up to rest on your lap, occasionally brushing delicately back and forth, and you swallow each time it does so. Then, once you've ordered and Sebastian’s left, taking the menu with him, your fiancé murmurs, “Well, at least we gave _him_ a good show,” as he finally pulls his hand back from you and reaches for his wine. 

 

You bat at his arm and Mycroft smiles around the rim of his wine glass. Then he listens as you say, “He didn't even know what we were doing.” 

 

“Of course he did,” Mycroft replies after he takes a sip of his wine and puts his glass back down, “He was standing a little way behind you just watching us. That’s why he had to come over, he was starting to enjoy it too much”-

 

 _“Mycroft!”_

 

“What?” he questions, his face the perfect picture of innocence now. 

 

“You can’t go around saying things like that,” you hiss, whilst you lean a little towards him now. 

 

“Of course I can,” he announces as he leans back, “ _I'm_ the British government.”

 

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile too, and as the night continues and you spend more time laughing about Sebastian, admiring the view, _and_ France of course, you feel lighter than you've done since you arrived. 

 

*

 

You wake up that morning still feeling light and happy from the night before, and your mind’s just starting to reminisce about it all, about how after you'd left the restaurant you’d clutched tightly onto Mycroft’s arm and slouched against him during the taxi ride back, before you’d got to curl up in bed beside him, when you hear movement in the bathroom and then the sound of the door opening. 

 

You turn your head just in time to see Mycroft exiting it, bare-chested with his hair damp, whilst he's only wearing a white towel around his waist. Your eyes hone in on the rivulets of water that drip down his face and glisten amongst the hairs on his chest, before they wander down to appreciate what you can see of his legs. Your body turns on its side so that you can get a better view, whilst your tongue pokes out the corner of your mouth. 

 

Mycroft snorts at you being so deliberately obvious, before he whips the towel off and throws it at you. 

 

You make an, ‘Mph,’ of protest as it hits your face, before you tug it down and let it rest on the bed. Then you make an, ‘Mmm,’ of approval, before he turns you and comes down to rest on top of you. 

 

“Mm mm _Mycroft_ ,” you breathe, arching up into him and clutching onto his damp hair with your fingers as he kisses down your face, neck and collarbone. You feel his member harden against your pyjama covered leg. 

 

“I just wanted to remind you what day it was,” Mycroft says, lifting his head up and you let out an, _‘Ah,’_ as his nose brushes against the bottom of your neck. 

 

“I'm perfectly aware,” you tell him, pretending to be a little annoyed with him now, before you get a glint of mischief in your eyes as you wrap your legs around him. 

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Mycroft says, pushing his back up against your legs until you’re forced to let go of him. “You’ll get your reward later, if you’re good,” he tells you, tapping your nose with his finger and leaning back, so that he comes to be straddling your waist instead. 

 

“Of course I’ll be good,” you say, feeling a little breathless just at the sight of him. 

 

“You weren't at the restaurant,” he says, jerking against you teasingly now, and the sharp singular movement of it has your fingers gripping onto the bed sheet that’s beneath you. 

 

“I-I”- you begin, feeling a little helpless about it all. 

 

“In fact,” Mycroft purrs consideringly, before he looks down at you. “You were rather naughty indeed, making me lose my concentration like that,” he says, with his mouth close to yours. You swallow, still breathless, and though you want to buck against him and make him topple over you so that his lips will come down onto yours, you don’t seem able to move. “Why, what might have happened if it had been not about the simple matter of ordering dinner, but about something important?” he teases, playing another one of his favourite games. 

 

“I might have toppled the free world Sir,” saying the words that you know he wants you to. 

 

“Yes, you might have, distracting me like that,” he agrees, looking at you steadily now, and you can’t help it. You finally move, and you cup your hands around the back of his head, before you push him down so that his lips come crashing against yours. Then you roll so that you’re the one on top of him. Mycroft chuckles into your mouth. Then he pulls away from you, before he taps you on the bum, tells you, “Later,” and rolls back so that you’re the one underneath him. “I need to think about you’re punishment first, you've been a very bad girl F/N.” 

 

You groan as he gets off you with a bit of a delicious smirk playing about his mouth. Then you sit up and watch as he begins to pick his clothes out from the wardrobe. 

 

When you see him beginning to slide on his trousers, before he’s even put on his underwear though, you can’t help but ask, “Aren't you forgetting something?” 

 

“No,” he says, as he finishes sliding his trousers up. Then he looks up at you as he reveals, “It’s the last day of work in a different city, that’s always a no underwear day.” 

 

“Is it now?” you smirk, as he slides on his belt and begins to do it up. Then, once he’s got the clasp of it fastened, you swing out of bed and sashay up to him. 

 

He smiles. But as soon as your hands shift to attempt to undo the belt, he slaps them away, tangling your fingers with his instead. Then he leans down so that he can whisper into your ear, “That counts as naughty behaviour you know.” 

 

“Maybe I don’t care,” you say, but when Mycroft frowns and you can see that he’s not going to budge on this, you let out a groan, before you pull away from him. 

 

Mycroft just smiles. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s impossibly bored. All the people around him are idiots, and none of them, he’s disappointed but not surprised to see, have even slightly improved their I.Q in the time that they've been in contact with each other. There hasn't even been a challenge work wise in all his time here because all the other representatives seem on board with the British agenda, some even singing its praises. 

 

The German representative starts to speak now and Mycroft forces himself to listen for a moment. But it’s not long before his mind goes back to its favourite topic of distraction. _You._

 

You’d seemed much happier that morning and he’d been glad for it. But although of course he’s looking forward to tonight and of course to the pleasurable weekend that lies ahead, he can’t help but worry about what will happen when you both get back home. For though he may have promised you that he’d go and see Sherlock again, and he definitely intends to do so, he knows that he’s likely to make little progress if his brother insists on acting childishly. Whilst he can’t help but think that if things stay more or less the same for much longer than you’ll become even more emotional about it, and the thought that he might not still be able to change anything and please you all because of his brother makes him angry. He can’t very well get too angry here though, and knowing such a thing he gets the urge to contact you and distract himself from the issue once more. His eyes do a quick flick around the other occupants of the circular table. 

 

The French representative, a woman with her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, is straight-backed, her face rapt with attention. She’s been like this over the past few days, no doubt wanting to make a good impression. Mycroft could see the want for promotion swirling in her eyes when he’d first arrived and shaken her hand. He doubts whether she’s going to get it though. For he’s already been hearing rumours, and it seems like a man, as is so often the case in this game, could be in with a better chance. He gives it six months until she quits. Five until she has a breakdown. 

 

As for mostly everyone else, they only seem to be half-listening, their eyes slightly glazed over or fixed on their coffee. Mycroft wonders what the British taxpayer would make if they could see the state of all of them. They’d probably shudder into their cornflakes. Still, he thinks, it works rather well for him in this moment. For as long as he’s careful then no one should pay any particular attention to anything he does. So he slips his phone discreetly out of his pocket and quickly slides it underneath the table. Then, after another quick check, he ducks his head and begins to tap away. 

 

*

 

You’re sitting with your legs off to the side of you and breathing in the heavenly air that surrounds the Champ de Mars Park that’s just behind the Eiffel Tower. 

 

You’d felt in the mood to appreciate it today, especially after the conversation that you’d had in the restaurant with Mycroft last night, and knowing that this is the last day that you’ll have on your own also makes you feel better. But even if you hadn't felt better, you’d have struggled to stay in a bad mood for long, what with both the scent and sight of the spring flowers that have been planted in this area, the soft thrum of people and traffic, the magnificent Eiffel Tower, which stretches up into the clear blue sky, and the taste of the butter cookie that you’re nibbling on as you bask there and take it all in. 

 

Your phone, which you’d set down beside you on the short, ticklish grass, vibrates, and you finish off the rest of your cookie, before you pick it up. 

 

You’re not expecting it to be Mycroft, so when you see that it’s him you smile, before you do so even more when you read: **I hope you’re being good.**

 

_If you don’t count the fact that I'm sitting in a park and that I've just finished eating a wonderfully sinful butter cookie, then yes I'm being good. How about you? I hope you haven’t pulled your trousers down to reveal what you’re lacking today._

 

Mycroft smirks, before he shifts his position just for the hell of it. **I don’t believe that I'm lacking anything in that department, as you well know** , he sends back devilishly. 

 

 _Hmm, well I might have to double-check that when I next see you._

 

 **Double-check? You've definitely checked more than twice already my dear.**

 

 _Well, if you want to get technical about it._

 

 **I do, and whilst we’re on the matter of being technical I thought we’d already established that you’re in line for a bit of punishment. Whilst now, what with you just having revealed that you've eaten a delicious sounding treat without me, I can’t help but think that puts you in line for some more. So you’ll be lucky if you get the chance to check anything at this rate.**

 

You huff out a breath of frustration. _What if I promise to be good for the rest of the day?_

 

 **Ah, but how will I know that you've been such a thing? You do like to be so naughty after all,** Mycroft sends, enjoying himself now. 

 

 _You’ll know by looking at my face like you usually do, you quip._

 

 **You've just earnt yourself an even longer punishment** , Mycroft informs you. 

 

 _Which one is it going to be now?_

 

Mycroft considers this delicate matter for a moment. **Pin the tail on the donkey** , he decides. 

 

You pause for a moment. _If I didn't actually know what you mean by that then I’d be very insulted right now._

 

 **‘I’d be very insulted right now, Sir,’** Mycroft sends. 

 

 _Getting into character already are we? You might want to remember that you’re wearing no underwear right now._

 

Mycroft frowns. Then, even though he can feel that you’re right and he _does_ need to be more careful, he sends, **You’d do well to be less cheeky F/N, or you might find another cheek of a rather different kind stinging later.**

 

 _What would be the problem in that?_ You reply, still wearing a teasing smile on your face. 

 

 **‘What would be the problem in that Sir?’** Mycroft sends, beginning to feel a little irritated that he can’t respond to your behaviour in the way that he’d really like to right now. 

 

 _You don’t have to keep calling me ‘Sir,’_ you retort. 

 

**My, my, we are answering back a lot today aren't we? But you’ll find that such spirit doesn’t always do you any favours F/N.**

 

 _I don’t think I’ll mind it when you teach me that lesson. Sir._

 

 **That’s partly better. Now, in a moment I’ll have to go. But I expect you to be ready when I get back at four. I’d like to get on with your punishment straight away, since I get the feeling that it’s going to take a little while for the message to sink in. So you’d do well to eat before that. As for myself, well, I've got another disappointing buffet to look forward to.**

 

_You might be getting a feast later Sir, so you can’t expect everything._

 

 **Might be? Might I remind you that I'm the British government F/N, and what I want I get,** Mycroft sends you with his eyebrows raised. 

 

 _We’ll see,_ you tease. 

 

 **Yes, we’ll indeed see how much further you can stretch out your punishment. I've got to go. I’ll see you later Miss L/N.**

 

 _I’ll be expecting you Mr. Holmes._

 

Mycroft just smirks at that. Then he gives his phone a quick thoughtful stroke with his fingers, almost caressing it, before he slips it back inside his pocket. The German representative is still talking. 

 

You meanwhile get up onto your feet and brush yourself down. For if Mycroft’s going to make you both pay _and_ play later then you’re going to need to do some shopping. You might even get some postcards whilst you’re at it. 

 

*

 

 _‘Sir’_ is late. Two hours late in fact, and you’re cold, annoyed, frustrated and no way near as satisfied as you thought you’d be feeling by this particular hour. You’re full though, in one sense anyway, for you had done as Mycroft, sorry _‘Sir,’_ had suggested and got something to eat for yourself before four, so that’s something you suppose. But if he doesn’t come back soon then you know that you’re going to find yourself getting hungry again…

 

You sigh softly as you sit on the edge of the bed with only your dressing gown wrapped loosely around you and the soft glow of the bedside lamps providing the room’s light. 

 

Finally there comes a soft knock on the door. 

 

You get up, tightening your dressing gown around yourself as you go over to answer it, before you fold your arms. 

 

As soon as you open the door Mycroft says, “You have thirty seconds to take that off and get on the bed how I want you.”

 

You let out a bit of a derisive snort at that and turn around, folding your arms as you come to a stop. Then, once you hear the door clicking shut, you turn back to him and say, “If you think that I'm going to do what you want now then you can forget it. You’re late, and if anyone should be getting punished around here then it’s you.”

 

“You should know by now that such behaviour will not be tolerated,” Mycroft frowns. 

 

“Two hours I waited for you, wearing this and getting freezing cold just so that you could turn up late. I even spent most of the first hour covering my eyes with the new present that I got you”-

 

“New present?”- is of course the only thing that Mycroft hears. 

 

“If you think that you’re going to get it now when”- 

 

“Show it to me,” Mycroft commands, his voice overriding yours as he holds out a hand. 

 

You frown at him. For quite honestly you just feel like ripping off his belt and thrashing him yourself. See how he likes it. 

 

Mycroft must sense some of this, for he unbuckles his belt and slides it off. Then he wraps part of its length around his fist, whilst he has the other end resting in his palm as he says, _“F/N,”_ testily. 

 

You continue to scowl at him. But you've been punished before and you know how _‘Sir’_ won’t be happy if you continue to rebel. So, with that in mind you walk around to the desk, before you tug the present that you've got him off it. Then you walk back until you’re standing in front of him again. 

 

“Kneel,” he commands, and then when you frown at him and don’t look as if you’re automatically about to obey, he slaps the end of the belt threateningly against his hand, his brow slightly furrowed and his eyes dark. 

 

You swallow. Then, still with a bit of a frown on your face, you get on the floor, kneeling before him. “I got you this Sir,” you say, holding it out towards him with a bit of a terse smile upon your face. 

 

“Let’s see,” he murmurs, still holding the belt around one hand and hooking his thumb around it so that it won’t come undone, whilst he takes your offering with his other. “Ah yes,” he says, once he sees that it’s a navy tie with silver miniature Eiffel Tower’s dotted all over it, “This will come in very handy indeed. But I would have been even more pleased with it if you had chosen to obey my order when I first walked in,” he finishes, and he tilts his head slightly now, observing you out of cool eyes. 

 

“With all due respect Sir you were late, and suffice to say I wasn't feeling particularly _warm_ towards you,” you comment, standing up now, and you know that you’re getting close to crossing the line that _‘Sir’_ holds so dear.

 

Mycroft is not amused, and when he says, “Well then, we’ll have to change that won't we?” you know that you’re in trouble. You know it even more when he commands, “Get on the bed.”

 

Still you hesitate. For although part of you is telling you to obey, another part of you wants to see what _‘Sir’_ will do when you don’t listen. 

 

His hand tightens around the belt. Then he takes a step forwards so that there’s barely any gap between you, before he looks you straight in the eyes as he murmurs, “F/N, if you don’t start making to do what I want you to in the next ten seconds then I'm afraid that I'm going to have to arrest you.”

 

“Arrest me then,” you say in an uncaring fashion, and a pleasant sort of apprehension swirls in your stomach at the thought of him doing such a thing. You even add, “I'm all yours,” for good measure as you hold out your wrists towards him. 

 

The corner of his lip quirks upwards. For he knows that at last he’s in control, and he decides to take advantage of such a thing when, instead of fastening your wrists as you expect him to, he steps back. He smiles as you lower your hands with a curious expression on your face. Then he slowly unwinds the belt from his hand. He feels you stiffen as you watch him all the while, before he hears you let out a little breath when he tosses it on the floor, discarding it.

 

“Then it gives me no pleasure,” he says, holding the tie in between his fingers and straightening it out now so that it crackles a little against the air, “But I'm going to have to arrest you.” He looks at you, and already your parted lips feel moist and you want him against you. He smiles, and you can tell that he knows such things, and that your body has betrayed you. But suddenly you don’t care. Then he steps forwards again, before he circles you a couple of times. He ends up behind you and all the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, before you shiver a little as he bends his head down and whispers, “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Your eyes flutter shut, a gurgle of desire escaping your lips just before they do so. Then, with an agonizing slowness he begins to wrap the tie around your eyes, obscuring your vision. As he fastens the tie at the back of your head with a double knot you feel his soft breaths hitting you. Then you let out a breath when you feel him stepping away from you, and another when you feel him moving to stand in front of you. Part of his tie rubs against the top of your nose, and you find yourself feeling annoyed that it doesn’t have his scent on. There’ll be plenty of time to work on that though you know, and you smile. Mycroft catches sight of such a thing, and he doesn’t like it. For he doesn’t know what you’re smiling about. So to try and get back the control that he feels is slipping, he clears his throat. Your smile fades and he feels much happier for it. Then he feels even more so when he sees you becoming more serious in the next moment as he says, “I don’t know what you’re smiling about F/N, being arrested when you’re supposed to be one of the ones in charge of upholding the law is something that I’d feel most ashamed about if I was in your position.”

 

“Sorry Sir,” you say, hoping that it will be the right thing to placate him. 

 

He makes a sound of satisfaction in his throat, telling you it is. Then he steps even closer to you, and, in the next moment you feel his fingers coming to rest on the knot of your dressing gown. He gets it undone quickly, and you shiver as he slips it off your shoulders and when your skin becomes completely exposed to the cold air. 

 

“Good,” he murmurs, and you don’t have to be able to see to know that he’s looking you up and down in that moment. An involuntary sound escapes your mouth, before one of your hands reaches out automatically, attempting to find purchase on the buttons of his shirt. “Get on the bed,” he says, slapping your hand away and stepping back. For he will not succumb to you now. Not yet. 

 

You hesitate. Then you make to move forwards, and Mycroft grabs you firmly by the arm and helps guide you once you stumble. 

 

You can tell that you’re close to the bed when you feel him letting go of you, and sure enough when you inch forwards some more the bottom of your legs come against it. 

 

“As soon as you lie face down on the bed I will begin to interview you,” Mycroft begins. Then he says, “I’d like it if you could answer me honestly. If you don’t there will be consequences. I will then decide what sentence you deserve based on the answers that you give me and the crime or crimes that I feel you’re responsible for. Am I making myself clear?” 

 

“Yes Sir,” you say, feeling turned on just by having him talking to you like that. Then you clamber awkwardly onto the bed and lie face down, your head coming down to rest close to the bottom of one of the pillows. 

 

Mycroft swallows as he looks at you. Then he turns and bends down to pick up the belt. He turns back to you, readying the belt in his hand, and you swallow from sensing him doing such a thing. Swallow from picturing how he might look in that moment. His body slightly bent, one foot slightly more forward than the other to keep him steady as he holds the belt just above you, ready to bring it down. “Do you agree that your behaviour at the restaurant last night was unacceptable?” 

 

“Yes Sir,” your mumble, your mind barely focusing on your words, and focusing on the thrumming energy that fills you instead. Focusing on the part apprehension and part odd desire for the belt to come down on you because you know what it will lead to.

 

Mycroft is not happy by your lack of concentration though. For he thinks that you _should_ be focusing on your words, and he shows such a thing when he says, “ _Really?_ That doesn’t sound very convincing to me. When you respond I should like you to answer me in a tone that is both loud and clear.”

 

“I didn't want to disturb the peace Sir,” you say, the strength of your desire making you feel a little rebellious again. 

 

“ _I_ will decide how loud I want you to be,” Mycroft growls, bringing the belt upon you with a resounding thwack, and a loud gasp of, _“Sir!”_ escapes you as it slams against the top of your buttocks. “Is that clear?” he asks. 

 

“Yes,” you get out through your barely parted lips, for your whole jaw had tightened and clenched after your initial reaction, and it’s all you can do, what with the stinging pain and the way that it’s automatically made your eyes water, to get that one word out. 

 

_THWACK!_

 

“ ‘Yes Sir!’” Mycroft snaps. 

 

“Yes Sir,” you repeat automatically, your face scrunching and your body hunching, and you tug the pillow down now so that you can bury your head in it. 

 

“Did I say that you could have that?” Mycroft asks, though he’s a little gentler with you in the next moment, and he rubs at the skin that he’d just hit at with the belt, whilst he asks, “Do you also admit to two counts filed under this morning? One of eating a delicious baked good without my presence and the other of being rude to me several times?” 

 

“Yes Sir,” you say, more loudly this time as you lift your head up from the pillow. 

 

“To both counts Miss L/N?” Mycroft checks.

 

“Yes Sir,” you confirm. 

 

“Good,” Mycroft says, sounding pleased. “We _are_ making progress, aren't we?” But you don’t get a chance to respond, for in the next moment he goes on, “Do you also admit that you should have obeyed me when I returned here tonight and gave you that order?” 

 

“No,” you say, equally as clearly as the last two times that you’d previously spoken. For you still feel particularly stubborn about this point, what with it being so fresh and all. 

 

 _“Excuse me?”_ Mycroft asks, clearly astonished, evidently he’d expected the rest of the interview to be all plain sailing.

 

You smirk, before you begin to explain in a terse voice, “You were late”-

 

_THWACK!_

 

You cry out now and ‘Sir’ gives you another thwack for being so loud. You bury your face in the pillow, biting into its cover furiously in order to try and muffle out your cries. 

 

“Wrong answer,” Mycroft tells you, “Do you want to know where you went wrong?” 

 

You nod. But that just gets you another thrashing, and your body arches up, your head drawing back as you let out another cry. “Yes Sir,” you say once your breathing’s calmed down a little. 

 

Mycroft soothes your skin with his fingers, rewarding you for being a little better behaved. Then he tosses the belt down upon the floor, and the sound of it makes you start, letting out a little whimper. 

 

“Shh,” he tells you, giving you one last caress now, before he lets go of your skin altogether. 

 

You don’t hear anything else for a moment apart from the soft brush of fingers upon fabric, and your body instantly wriggles a little. For it sounds like ‘Sir’ is getting undressed. 

 

“Oh, I'm not quite done with you yet F/N. I just think that you might benefit more from a different method that’s all,” Mycroft informs you, sounding amused, and you bite at your lip. 

 

A little breath escapes you in the next moment however when there comes a creaking noise and you feel a slight dip in the bed. Then you moan out, your head arching back when Mycroft slowly sinks down onto your back and you can feel his arousal through his trousers. 

 

“I told you to be quiet,” he reminds you. 

 

“Yes Sir,” you breathe, though you can’t help but arch up against him, wanting to feel him even more. 

 

“We’ll be having none of that either,” he tells you in a firm tone, before when you slump resignedly back down onto the bed he coos, “You’re my good girl aren't you F/N?” 

 

“Yes Sir,” you say, a little louder and more eager to please this time. 

 

“And you want to keep being my good girl, don’t you?” he asks. 

 

“Yes Sir, yes I do,” you get out, still eager, though a very large part of you is now also trying to fight the temptation to arch up against him again. 

 

“Then,” he begins, and he leans over you now and you moan out a little again at not only the feel of how hard he is, but also at the feel of his bare chest as it comes down to press into your back, “In that case, why don’t you admit how wrong it was of you to disobey me earlier?” he whispers into your ear, and you shiver against him. “Is it because you wanted to control me then and you still want to now? Do you want to punish me F/N?” he asks. 

 

You swallow. “I do want to punish you Sir,” you confess. 

 

“Ah, I thought so,” he smiles, his hand brushing against your hair now. “Do you admit then,” and now he adjusts himself so that he’s lying on top of you more properly and a groan filled with desire escapes your lips, “That because of wanting such a thing it encouraged that poor behaviour from you?” 

 

“I guess so Sir,” you relent. 

 

But that’s not good enough. “Is that a yes Miss L/N?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

 _“Yes?”_

 

“Yes Sir,” you get out more loudly. 

 

He chuckles into your ear, making you go dizzy. “In that case I find you guilty on four counts. You know what that means don’t you F/N?” he asks, clambering off you. 

 

“Four lashes Sir.”

 

 _“Indeed,”_ Mycroft replies in a rather delicious tone, and your body stiffens up as you hear him picking up the belt. 

 

The blows come in quick succession, and your body almost lifts completely off the bed as you yell and gasp out at the stinging, throbbing pain that it causes. Then it’s all over. 

 

“Up, get up,” Mycroft urges you, throwing the belt on the floor and coming around to your head as you shakily lift yourself up so that you’re on all fours. He turns your head firmly towards him in the next moment, before he undoes the tie and whips it off. Then he tosses it on the floor, and you just stare at him hazily for a moment, blinking a little. Not only from suddenly being able to see clearly again, but from how attractive he looks with his hair all mused, his lips slightly parted to let out his soft breaths and his bare chest glistening slightly with sweat as it falls up and down in quick succession. “Move across,” he tells you, patting at your side, and you do so in a clumsy, wobbly fashion like a newborn calf, panting all the while. 

 

He sits down, his back to, though not resting on the headboard, and with his legs outstretched in front of him. “Lie down,” he says, gesturing with his hand. 

 

You do so, your face in his lap. Then, as he begins to slowly massage your sore and aching buttocks you begin to writhe against him, your tongue almost licking at his trousers, before your mouth attempts to find purchase on his member. 

 

He arches against you, a groan escaping his lips as he tilts his head back in pleasure, whilst his hands tighten around your backside. 

 

 _“Please,”_ you whimper. 

 

“What do you want me to do?” he just about manages to get out, his face a little scrunched up, his eyes nearly shut, and he’s clearly fighting to hold himself back now. 

 

The sound of him struggling against his own desire just turns you on even more, and you push back and forth against him, before you say, “I-I want”-

 

 _“Yes?”_ Mycroft encourages you, before he adds, “You have to tell me F/N, I can’t give it to you otherwise my love”-

 

“I want you to make love to me,” you interrupt, your voice all breathy now. 

 

That’s all it takes. All it takes for both Mycroft and you to move simultaneously, both of you now kneeling on the bed, before you begin to push at and wrestle his trousers down. He gasps a little at the force of you, and another whimper escapes your lips when you hear such a thing. Then he finishes the process of getting them off, kicking them to the floor. He rolls on top of you in the next moment, and then, without any further ado he enters you. You both gasp out. You doing so particularly loudly, and he covers your mouth with his hand. 

 

 _“Quiet,”_ he reminds you, and you nod, before you gasp out a little, your breath feeling warm against his palm, when he moves without being able to help it and pushes into you some more. 

 

He groans at the feel of you. Then he makes to move his hand away from your mouth. But you grab at it with your own hand, cradling it and drawing it back, before you begin to suck at his fingers. He cries out, thrusting against you again without being able to help it. The sound of him beginning to lose control just drives you even wilder, and as he moves some more you match his movements with your sucking. Then, losing control even more, he begins to gasp out, swearing every other breath, not only in English but in other languages too, and when you hear him say something that sounds particularly dirty in French you cry out and drop his hand without being able to help it. His lips are on yours in the next moment, and you pant and gasp furiously into each other’s mouths as he continues to move in and out of you, your hands clutching tightly around his hair. 

 

“Do you love me?” he asks rather breathlessly once he draws back up from you. 

 

 _“Yes,”_ you cry out, your eyes almost shut and your face scrunched up as he thrusts into you again. 

 

“More-than-anyone?” he asks, in between pressing unusually out of control kisses against your neck and collarbone.

 

 _“Yes!”_ you cry out, as you arch up into him again and he gasps. 

 

“More than Sherlock?” he asks, his own face beginning to scrunch up as he thrusts into you even harder, and you gasp out, your body jerking against his and your hands clawing into his back. _“F/N?”_ he presses you. 

 

“Yes! _God_ , yes!” you cry out, louder now, and then anything else that you might have been about to say gets drowned out by an uncontrollable whimper that leaves your mouth as he begins to increase his pace dramatically. This then transforms into a cry of, “Mycroft-oh God- _Myc_!” as your body tightens against his and you climax. 

 

He comes over the edge in the next moment, swearing again and gasping out your name, and you stroke at his hair as he shudders against you, before suddenly there’s silence apart from the breathless panting of the pair of you. Then you’re just holding onto each other. 

 

“I love you,” he manages to get out once he’s calmed down a little, and you feel his warm breaths hit your neck, before he places a couple of delicate kisses to it.

 

“I love you too,” you tell him, your hands sliding down from his hair to rub at his shoulders and upper back, and he smiles at you. 

 

*

 

You wake up first that next morning. It’s still a little dark. The soft daylight hasn't yet penetrated all of the room. You roll away from where your body had been tangled up against Mycroft’s onto your back, just basking in the silence for a moment. 

 

You look across at him then. He’s still asleep. His face slack and untroubled, his auburn hair shining in the light and his mouth slightly open. In moments like this you both want to cuddle up to him and leave him be. 

 

In the end you decide to leave him be. For it’s rare that he gets the chance to have a lie-in. 

 

Instead you carefully get out of bed so that you won’t disturb him and go to have a shower. 

 

It’s when you've just put your underwear on and when you've still got a towel wrapped around your head that you look across at Mycroft again. Then you recall him asking you whether you loved him more than his brother last night, and you know that, that hadn't been a moment of him trying to show his dominance over his brother, but rather that he’d been trying to reassure himself. “You silly man,” you say fondly as you go across to him. Then you bend down and peer at his beautiful face, before you kiss him on the forehead and tell him, “It’s you. It’s always been you. How many times do I have to tell you, before it goes through that ridiculously clever head of yours?” 

 

Mycroft mumbles something incoherently at that. Then he makes a swatting gesture with his hand, before it falls upon the duvet once more. “Okay, I’ll leave you to your dreams a bit longer my love,” you tell him, smiling at him now as he shifts onto his back, before he flops down onto his side, wrinkling his nose. Then, as sleep properly claims him in its grasp, he stills once more. 

 

You straighten up, still marvelling at how utterly adorable he can be. Then, catching sight of the postcards that you’d left on the desk yesterday, you remove the white towel off your head and go and hang it up in the bathroom, before you go across to them. 

 

* 

 

Mycroft makes a couple of twitching movements as he wakes. Then he rolls onto his back, blinking blearily. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ he calls once he’s established that you’re not there beside him. 

 

“Over here,” you tell him softly, turning your chair around now so that you can look at him properly. 

 

He sits up, breathing a little in relief when he sees that you’re simply sitting by the desk with a pen in your hand. “What are you doing?” he asks, adjusting his pillow so that he can rest his back against it. 

 

“Well, since _‘Sir’_ was sleeping after all his hectic activity last night”- you begin and Mycroft blushes a little-“I thought I’d make a start on writing some postcards to send back home.”

 

Mycroft snorts, his earlier embarrassment evidently forgotten. 

 

 _“What?”_ you ask him, before you make to chew a little on your pen. 

 

“Only you could be so insistent about writing postcards that won’t even reach home until after we do,” he smiles, and your heart jolts pleasantly in your chest at that, for he looks so fond of you. Though you soon get distracted from your burgeoning desire when he asks, “Who are you writing to anyway?” 

 

“Mrs. Hudson”-

 

 _“Mrs. Hudson?”_ Mycroft splutters, looking even more amused now. 

 

“What’s wrong with that?” you ask, laying your pen back down on the desk now with a frown. 

 

“I was just wondering what you could be telling her, since even _she_ knows that part of the whole reason for this trip was so that we could have a dirty weekend together”-

 

“That might have been _your_ reason My My, but _I_ came to see the Eiffel Tower,” you tease. 

 

“Did you like it?” Mycroft asks, mischief sparkling in his eyes, and you know that he’s cottoned on to your meaning. 

 

“Oh, it was so big and wonderful,” you say, looking as if you’re pretending to be in a bad porn movie now as you clasp your hands together dramatically. Then you place a hand to your forehead as you fake a swoon. 

 

He smirks. Then in the next moment, as your eyes come to meet each other’s once more he looks at you intently as he invents, “ ‘Dear Mrs. Hudson, I thought I’d send you this lovely postcard from the dirty weekend that I'm having in France. I saw the Eiffel Tower last night, it was wonderful, and the real one’s pretty nice too’”-your spluttering laughter cuts him off a little there, and he smiles, before he goes on, “ ‘We used the belt’”-

 

 _“We?”_ you interrupt, “As I recall only _you_ got the pleasure of using such a thing My My,” you point out, and then as Mycroft looks a little guilty, but not _too_ guilty, you tease, “Something which I _more_ than intend to make up for over the next two days,” and you feel far more satisfied when you see that Mycroft looks a little worried now. 

 

“What have I done that _I_ need punishing for?” he whines, like a little boy who’s stolen from the cookie jar and who doesn’t get what he’s done wrong in the first place. 

 

You eye him intently for a moment. Then you pick the pen up from the desk and twirl it a couple of times in between your fingers, before you slap it down against your hand, trying to imitate the way he’d done the same thing with his belt last night. “I don’t think we need to go back over that again, _do we _?” you ask.__

 

Mycroft swallows, but then he gets considerably bolder when he states, “I don’t see how you could possibly punish me with such a small device F/N my dear. Unless you’re going to try and give me ink poisoning?”

 

You scowl at him and tap your hand with the pen a couple of times for good measure. “That’s an idea, but actually I wasn't thinking of using the pen. You seemed to get so much pleasure out of using the belt last night that I thought _I’d_ give it a go again, it has been such a _long_ time since I’ve had _my_ turn after all…”

 

Mycroft swallows, looking both apprehensive and slightly excited by the prospect, and a little satisfied smirk makes its way across your face, before you lay the pen back down again. “Anyway,” you begin, “As for what I was going to tell Mrs. Hudson, I was just going to tell her about the ‘delicious baked goods,’ nothing else,” you say, quoting him from last night now. 

 

Mycroft leans back to observe you, tilting his chin slightly upwards as he does so, and he looks equally satisfied as you’d looked just a moment before when he says, “Ah yes, as for them I had some last night. The dough was a little unwilling at first, but I soon moulded it to my requirements,” and he raises a playful eyebrow at you now. 

 

“Making your own batch were you?” you enquire, getting into his game and standing up, before you move to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. 

 

His gaze goes down to where your dressing gown is opening out slightly to reveal some of your cleavage, and his eyes only flick up to yours momentarily again, before he murmurs, “Yes,” as he runs his hand down from your exposed skin and along the front of your dressing gown until he comes to its parting. You arch your head back as he does all this. Then when his hand darts beneath so that it can grasp experimentally at your leg, an _‘Ah,’_ escapes you. “I must admit that I’ve never had something so delicious in all my life,” Mycroft breathes in a low, seductive fashion, before he lets go of you and slumps back against the headboard. He rests one leg on top of your lap and the other just behind your back, still gloriously naked. 

 

“Do you think that you’ll ever get the chance to try it again?” you ask, looking genuinely curious now as you look down at him with your lips parted fractionally. 

 

“Oh yes, I should think so,” Mycroft begins, tilting his head at you a little, before he muses, “If I'm a good boy,” and he rotates the foot that’s hanging off the edge of your lap a couple of times now. 

 

 _“Well,”_ you say, looking down at his leg, and he stills his movement as your fingers delicately begin to stroke and probe at the flesh there, “There _is_ still the matter of your little transgression last night, you know the one where you kept me waiting for _two_ hours”- and you break off now so that you can slap your hand hard against his leg twice. His leg jolts up, before it falls back down, whilst a little hiss of breath escapes his mouth. “But aside from that I can’t think of a single naughty thing you've done.” 

 

“I _have_ been good haven’t I?” he asks, looking pleased now.

 

“Yes, yes you have,” you tell him, stroking at his leg again, “But like you said last night,” you go on now, and your hand stills, “I still have to punish you”- Mycroft’s face falls-“So, with that being said, I’d like you to sit up properly and take a look at another postcard that I’ve written.” Mycroft looks at you in confusion. So you pat at his leg, before you push it off your lap. He wriggles so that he’s sitting in a more upright position, his legs only with a little gap between them, whilst you get off the bed and go back across to the desk to fetch the postcard that you want him to read. 

 

Once you've picked it up you turn back to him. Then you take in the way that he’s looking at you, still with so much puzzlement about his face, before you swallow. “It’s for John and your brother.” 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft protests, his expression changing to become both more weary and irritated. 

 

“No, no, it’s nothing bad, please just look at it,” you hurry out, stumbling a couple of steps forwards now and holding the postcard up so that he can see what you've written. 

 

His brow becomes slightly furrowed again, but it soon relaxes, and he even manages a small smile as he reads: _From Paris, With Love._ You smile when you see him doing such a thing and getting the reference. For you've watched countless James Bond films in your time together after all, with you often joking whenever you saw one that you were not watching a fictitious film, but a real-life documentary about Mycroft’s life. Something which had always made Mycroft reply, “Yes, but you’re my only Bond girl.” 

 

“I thought we could put some lipstick on and kiss it to make it more fun”- you begin, deciding to try and use his better mood to your advantage. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he protests, pulling a bit of a face and folding his arms. 

 

“Oh, _c’mon_ Myc,” you say, lowering the postcard now, “It’s just a bit of fun, just something to break the ice, before we go and see him once we get back home,” and you even lift the postcard up and tilt it up and down in a playful manner in the hope that it will get him to smile. 

 

It doesn’t. Instead he just questions, _“We?”_ with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“Yeah,” you say, before you swallow, “I could go with you if you want. I know I haven’t before, and I know we decided that it might be even more awkward with me there. But since it’s not exactly working…” you trail off, but you feel a bit better when you see a small smile beginning to form on his face. “So are you up for a little bit of fun?” you ask, moving the postcard again. But then when you see that he still looks uncertain you say in a seductive fashion, “If you do I can guarantee that you’ll like the reward I give you after I punish you,” and you sway your hips a little now in order to try and further tempt him. 

 

“Blackmailing me now. You are coming along splendidly,” Mycroft purrs, his eyes glittering with amusement, and you smile. 

 

Then you pick up a tube of dark red lipstick that you've left on the desk and apply some quickly without a mirror, still facing Mycroft as you do so, before you smack your lips together. 

 

The sight makes him groan, “Can I get my reward now?” 

 

“Certainly not, why you haven’t even been punished yet,” you tell him, feeling infinitely more satisfied now that you’re the one in control. Then you kiss the postcard quickly, not making a big deal out of it for you know that it will only put Mycroft off more if you do. “Come on,” you say, lowering the postcard and taking both it and the lipstick across to him. 

 

You bend down, resting the postcard carefully down on the bed, before you lean across towards Mycroft so that you can apply the lipstick on him. 

 

He leans back before you can do so, a wary look on his face. 

 

“I’ll be able to get it off just as quickly as I can get it on if you co-operate,” you tell him. 

 

“Have you ever considered going into a side-line of torture if the whole being a police officer thing doesn’t work out?” he asks, his eyes not on yours now, but on what he can see of your cleavage as you lean across towards him. 

 

“Yes, in fact I’ve been practising my different techniques on a lot of people for a while. I’ve never felt very challenged though, none of them seemed to have an I.Q above sixty,” you muse, playing again as you tilt his chin up with your fingers. 

 

 _“No?”_ Mycroft questions, sounding both surprised and disappointed for you now as his eyes meet yours, “Perhaps then you could try them out on me, I’ve been reliably informed that I'm clever,” he purrs, running his hand around the one of yours that’s holding the lipstick, before he slides it underneath the sleeve of your dressing gown and snakes it down your wrist.

 

“Who told you that?” you smirk, before you shake his hand off. “As far as I’ve heard you’re not even clever enough to be able to tell the time.” 

 

“I assure you”- he begins, but he stops when you start to shake your head. 

 

“Lipstick,” you tell him firmly, and he lets out a bit of a sigh, before he purses his lips for you. 

 

You let out a bit of a giggle at the way that he’s clearly trying to prevent himself from rolling his eyes. Then you pull his head a little closer towards you with one hand, before you begin to apply the lipstick with the other.

 

“Mm, that colour works pretty well on you, but I think we’ll try a paler one next time,” you tell him teasingly, letting go of him and leaning back to admire your handiwork now. 

 

“I probably look like a fish,” he groans.

 

“A very pretty fish,” you try to placate him, tapping at his nose with your finger, before you hand him the postcard.

 

“Koi,” he says rather absent-mindedly as he stares down at it. 

 

“Yes,” you murmur softly, before you watch as, just after his eyes flick back to yours momentarily, they go back down to the postcard. He kisses it quickly, just to the right of where you’d placed yours, and you’re reminded of a little boy wishing for something before he blows out the candles on his birthday cake. He swallows in the next moment. 

 

 _“There,”_ you say soothingly, trying to make him feel better by placing a hand on his shoulder, whilst you look down at the postcard too. 

 

He nods to acknowledge the fact that he’s heard you. His eyes however are still on the postcard, and he brushes his fingers lightly against both of your lipstick marks for a moment. Then he says in a rather wistful fashion, “From Paris with love little brother,” and his words are so full of longing that they make your heart ache. 

 

You press a kiss instinctively to his forehead. The touch leaves a mark there, and you rub it off gently with your thumb in the next moment, before you take the postcard from him when he passes it to you. 

 

You take both it and the lipstick back to the desk. Then, once you've turned around to face him once more, and you see how thoughtful and troubled his face has grown with everything, you say, “I thought, if you still agreed, that I might try out some of those techniques I was talking to you about now.”

 

“I’d like that,” he smiles, looking up at you. 

 

“In that case,” you tell him, “I’ll begin at once. The first part is to see how well you can cope when you can see part of the reward that you might be getting later on, but when you can’t touch it. What do you think of that Mr. Holmes?” 

 

“I think it sounds better than ink poisoning,” he replies, his eyes a dark blue as they fix on you, and one of his legs moves to cross over the other. 

 

“I thought you might say that,” you say, your eyes fixing on him for one steady moment, before you slowly undo your dressing gown and slip it off your shoulders, revealing the lacy underwear that you’d picked up for yourself yesterday in the process. 

 

“You never told me about those last night,” Mycroft breathes, looking impressed as his eyes appreciatively run up and down your body now. 

 

“Why would I have when last night was only the warm up for the whole weekend?” you ask him in a low voice, bridging the gap between you and beginning to lower yourself down upon him. 

 

He uncrosses his legs automatically as you sink down. Then a little breath escapes him when you lean towards him. You smirk, for you know that he believes you’re going to kiss him. Instead of doing so however you merely open your mouth and let out a very deliberate moan as you brush right up against him, your hair trailing down across his face, and he lets out another little sharp breath as it does so. Then he arches his head back and gasps as your nose and lips come to brush and pinch at his shoulders and chest, weaving through the hair there, before you draw your head back again with a satisfied smile now. He makes to touch your waist with his hands then, but-

 

“No touching,” you remind him, and his lips part automatically. 

 

You smirk. Then you clamber off him altogether, before you go to stand at the foot of the bed. 

 

“My dear”- he begins, looking at you with a rather dazed expression upon his face. 

 

“You will not call me that right now,” you inform him. Then you turn to the wardrobe and get out one of his belts, fingering it and testing how it feels in your hands as you turn back to him. You curl it up a little and flick one of its ends against your palm, swaying your hips a little as you do so, before you tell him, “Instead you will call me Mistress”- and Mycroft swallows, for you, unlike him, have many characters in the bedroom, but he knows that the one called 'Mistress' is the one that you tend to use when you’re feeling your most domineering-“And you will do as I say. Is that clear Mr. Holmes?” 

 

“Yes Mistress.”

 

“Good,” you smile, letting the belt drop to the floor now, before you turn your attention back to the wardrobe again. “In that case I’d like you to kneel on the bed and present your wrists to me”-

 

“I never tied you up,” Mycroft interrupts now without being able to help himself. 

 

You pause from where you’d been going through the collection of ties that he’d brought with him, before you turn slowly around. Then you take a couple of slow, deliberate steps towards him with a serious look upon your face, before you tell him, “You will do what I tell you to Mr. Holmes”-

 

 _“Or?”_ Mycroft asks, choosing to be difficult now, and he raises his eyebrows. 

 

‘I’ll show you _or_ ,’ is what you think, but, “Turn around,” is what comes out of your mouth in a firm fashion. Mycroft just swallows. “Turn around,” you repeat. 

 

“Make me,” Mycroft says, folding his arms now and clearly feeling intrigued as to what you’ll do next. 

 

You know that he probably expects you to go over there and wrestle him into position with your hands, a move, which you know that he’ll quickly take advantage of and use to become the dominant one. So you don’t do that. Instead you just give him a bit of a look as if to say that his challenge to get him to do what you want is accepted. Then you pick up the belt, before you say in a loud, clear tone, “Turn around, or I’ll use this on your front instead of on your back,” with your eyes on him now. 

 

Mycroft just looks at you consideringly for a moment. Then he slips down so that he’s lying on his back. For a moment, upon seeing this, you think you've won. But instead of rolling over onto his stomach he just stays how he is, letting out a little breath. You can feel his unspoken challenge to you, so you lift the belt in the air, readying yourself by adjusting your stance. 

 

Then, in a move that Mycroft clearly isn't expecting you to make, you lift the belt even further up in the air, before you bring it raining down upon him. 

 

It catches against his thigh and Mycroft yelps, his head being pulled forwards and his hands automatically stretching down towards his legs, which both jerk up a little in response to the belt’s fiery touch, before they sink back down into the duvet again. 

 

A beat passes between you. Then, just as you’re beginning to raise the belt again, and in a rare show of submission, Mycroft slowly turns around onto his stomach. 

 

You smile, feeling satisfied, before you ask, “You shouldn't have done that should you?” 

 

“No Mistress,” Mycroft mumbles, his head turned to the side of his pillow now. 

 

“I can’t hear you,” you inform him testily now.

 

“No Mistress,” Mycroft says in a clearer tone, lifting his head a little off the pillow.

 

“Good,” you tell him crisply, before you swallow. “In that case I hope you've learnt your lesson. Now where was I?”-

 

“You were about to tie me up Mistress,” Mycroft reminds you, clearly thinking that he’s being helpful. 

 

“I _know_ where I was!” you snap in a heated fashion, bringing the belt down upon him, and Mycroft lets out a sharp gasp as it hits him smartly across the buttocks. Then, not even giving him a chance to breathe, you bring the belt down again. “That’s for being late!” you say, as his body jerks up and another yelp escapes his mouth. “And _this_ ”- you begin as you whip the belt down across his flesh-“This is for every-single time-that you-never thought I was being affected by what’s going on between you-and your brother,” you say, bringing the belt down upon him during every pause, your body now glistening with sweat from your exertion, and every time it hits him Mycroft lets out an, _‘Ah!’_ scrunching up his face and biting down so hard upon his lip after every initial reaction that he very nearly draws blood. 

 

You throw the belt down and give a firm caress to his backside, causing him to sink further down upon the duvet. Then you pace back and forth for a moment, draining yourself of the final frustration that you feel about everything. Mycroft meanwhile tentatively rolls around so that he can sit up and look at you, giving you a bit of a wary expression as he does so. 

 

You stop at the front of the bed and turn to face him again. “Kneel,” you command, and Mycroft, still panting a little from your blows just now, does so as quickly as he can. 

 

You shoot him a satisfied look, before you turn back to the wardrobe, withdraw one of his ties-this one a blue one, which has white crosses all over it-before you return quickly to him. “Hold out your hands,” you order, and again he does so. But though you know that he gets your full meaning, he takes advantage of the fact that you’d chosen to be non-specific with your words, and he doesn’t hold his hands out with his wrists close together, _or_ with his palms facing upward. So you turn them and tap his wrists together yourself, giving him a bit of a serious look in return to his challenging one. “Normal punishment doesn’t seem to be working for you Mr. Holmes”-

 

“No Mistress?” Mycroft asks with an expression of curious innocence upon his face. 

_“No,”_ you tell him firmly, fastening his wrists together with the tie now, “So I'm going to revert back to phase one because I believe that, that had more of an effect on you. Only this time I'm going to make sure that you can’t even _try_ to touch me.”

 

“Maybe you should blindfold me too in that case?” Mycroft suggests. 

 

“Oh no,” you laugh, “Being not able to see won’t be a punishment for you,” and with his wrists now secure you push him hard on the chest so that he goes sprawling back down onto the bed. A little jerk of breath leaves his mouth. “Sit up,” you tell him, and he does so awkwardly, holding his hands out in front of him. “Good,” you murmur, once you can tell that you've got his attention again. “Now I want you to watch me very closely Mr. Holmes, and, no matter what I want you to be as quiet as you can, or I might just leave those wrists of yours fastened all day. Do you understand?” 

 

Mycroft just stares at you for a moment. 

 

“Do you understand?” you repeat. 

 

“Yes Mistress,” he finally replies in a dutiful fashion. 

 

“Good,” you get out, before you shake your hair, keeping one eye on Mycroft all the while as you do so, and you feel satisfied when you see him swallowing. Then, slowly, you begin to run your hands up and down all over your body, wriggling deliberately a little as you do so and moaning out. A little breath escapes him, and when you hear it you glance at him again. “Do you know what I'm thinking about right now when I touch myself like this?” you ask, running your hands across your midriff now, before they move down your legs. 

 

“No,” Mycroft just about manages to croak out, before he swallows again. 

 

 _“No?”_ you ask him testily, and your hands pause their work. 

 

“No Mistress,” he says, catching on quickly to the fact that you won’t continue the show you’re giving him unless he co-operates fully, and you smile, before your hands begin their work again. 

 

“I'm thinking about you, having your hands all over me, _touching_ me,” you reply, and now as he swallows again your hands move back up, before they quickly undo the fastening of your bra and whip it off, dropping it deliberately to the floor, whilst Mycroft watches you all the time, his eyes going to your breasts then. 

 

You approach him and clamber up onto the bed, before you move until you’re hovering over him, your hands keeping you up. He swallows again when your eyes meet. Then you smirk, before you reverse a little. For you’re not going to let him have his wicked way with you _that_ easily. Then you finally sink down upon his legs, and your hair brushes against them as you begin to apply kisses that are both somehow delicate and painful to his inner thigh. 

 

Mycroft gasps out a little as your teeth graze and come to pinch against the skin there, for every little touch from you seems to leave a trace that’s a thousand times more powerful than the one that was left by the belt earlier. 

 

“Keep still,” you tell him when his legs come up to jerk involuntarily against your head. 

 

Mycroft tries to. He really does. But when the top of your head comes to brush against the tip of his member he gasps out and arches up against you without being able to help it. 

 

You draw back in the next moment and take your knickers off, and the way that you do so in such an absent-minded fashion, before you throw them to the floor has him muttering, “F/N, please.”

 

You look across at his face now, taking satisfaction from how wild he’s already been driven from not being able to touch you. Then you smirk, before you bend down to place a delicate kiss against his member. That has him jerking up against you again, and when you lift your head up once more you tease, “I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

 

“I am, I couldn't be any- _ah_!” Mycroft says, before he reacts when you take him into your mouth, thrusting against you automatically, scrunching his face up and closing his eyes. "Ah! Oh God, oh, F/N, ah! Oh Christ, _please_!" is what he gets out as you continue your work, and every exclamation from him only encourages you further. 

 

You work away at him just before the point where you sense he’s about to explode. Then you draw back deliberately, before you crawl up and sink down upon him so that your face is now inches from his. 

 

His eyes, which had opened as soon as you’d desisted your work stare at you, and he pants, before he swallows twice in quick succession. 

 

“Now will you admit that you did wrong by being late?” you ask, and his eyes widen and his lips part as he realizes how sneaky you've been all this time. You smirk at his surprise. Then you peck at his lips quickly, and he groans a little when he can taste himself upon them. 

_"Please,"_ he whispers, as you pull back and brush a hand down through his hair and across his face. 

“You did so upset me,” you murmur, pretending that you hadn't heard him as you move your leg now and dart your knee teasingly back and forth over his skin like a cat flicking its tail. “There I was, waiting, and all I ever wanted was your love, my love,” you say. Then you suck at the skin on his neck, your body beginning to writhe against his, and Mycroft lets out an, _‘Ah,’_ into your ear, before he arches up against you. 

 

“Do you admit that you were wrong?” you ask, reaching up above his head now to undo the fastening that’s around his wrists.

 

“Yes Mistress,” Mycroft says quickly. _Too_ quickly. 

 

“Really?” you ask, holding the tie threateningly against his neck now. 

 

“Yes, God, yes,” he says.

"Then perhaps, just to convince me further you could beg," you suggest, still holding his tie by his pulsing throat, and when he just stares at you incredulously, you add softly, "Beg me for what you want right now, because I can't give it to you if you don't tell me my love." 

Mycroft swallows, recognising his own words from last night amongst yours. Then he thrusts up against you a little before, when you begin to press kisses to the parts of his neck that you still have access to around his tie in order to further encourage him, he arches his head back and groans, "God I-I want, I want to touch you, I-I want you to let me make love to you, I want that more than anything right now"-

"Good boy," you breathe, pulling your head back from him and tossing the tie aside without further ado. 

 

His hands are all over you in the next moment. Then he’s rolling around and thrusting into you with a gasp and your bodies are coming together slick and fast. You gasp and cry out, which only encourages Mycroft to thrust into you further. Then you both come together in a shout of noise, before your body sinks down into the duvet and peaceful oblivion as his collapses against yours. 

 

*

 

The rest of your time in Paris goes, in your opinion how most of it should have gone, which is with Mycroft and you cuddling, having sex, talking and walking together through the capital, Mycroft gently teasing you when he spots some pigeons, before you both pack to _'Non, Je Ne Regrette,'_ a song by Édith Piaf. 

 

All too soon though it’s back to London. Back to home and back to work, well for you anyway since Mycroft hasn't exactly had much of a break, and neither of you have much of a chance to reminisce about your time away. 

 

That is until the first Saturday back however when a reminder of your time away comes to you in the form of an unexpected visitor.

 

“Can you get that?” you call over your shoulder from where you’re crouched down by the oven, for you’d just been about to serve lunch. 

 

You hear Mycroft, fresh from a shower, clattering downstairs in the next moment, so you don’t think much more of it, you just hope that whoever it is won’t effect lunch. 

 

But then you hear Sherlock’s voice, so you switch the oven off, leaving the lunch to cool inside it, before you inch closer, hiding off to the side of he kitchen entrance way so that neither of them will see you. 

 

“I got the postcard,” you hear Sherlock say, and you can picture the awkward look that he’s giving Mycroft and the way that he’s probably shifting his weight from one foot to the other since he’d probably been hoping that _you’d_ be the one to answer the door. 

 

 _“Ah,”_ you hear Mycroft say in a deliberately light fashion, and you can hear the hope that he’s holding inside himself and your heart goes out to him. 

 

“She’s got you well-trained hasn't she? Or at least that’s what you’d like us to think. Where is she anyway?” Sherlock asks, choosing to spoil it all as usual. 

 

You sigh at his petulant behaviour, cursing him, and knowing that you’ll probably have to work even harder now to get Mycroft to talk to him properly. For you can already sense that your fiancé’s probably thinking that the whole postcard thing was a waste of time and that he should never have gone through with it, no matter what it had led on to. Still, you’re determined not to give up now. So you go towards them, announcing as you do so, “I'm here, and you could probably stand to be a bit kinder to your brother Sherlock, after all that he’s done for you.” 

 

“ _I’ll_ decide that,” Sherlock mutters. Mycroft meanwhile turns slightly towards you, and you slip your hand into his as you join him, giving it a quick squeeze. 

 

Sherlock looks you up and down, taking every inch of you in and no doubt calculating and coming up with a million conclusions about what you've been up to since he last saw you as he does so. 

 

“You _bastard_ ,” he gets out in a shaky breath, his eyes flicking to look at his brother again. 

 

 _“Sherlock”-_ you get out, feeling shocked at his tone. Not to mention wondering what on earth’s brought it on, and you step forwards a little now, whilst Mycroft lets go of your hand. 

 

“That’s what you've been trying to do isn't it? All this time? Get her pregnant so that she’d be forced to stay with you, so that she’d never be able to change her mind, just like Father did with Mummy”- and he breaks off now just so that he might be able to catch his breath. 

 

“This has got nothing to do with what Father did with Mummy,” Mycroft gets out automatically, before his brain seems to catch up with the full extent of what Sherlock has just said. “And F/N’s not, F/N’s not”- he says, before he breaks off and looks down at you. 

 

The word, ‘pregnant,’ has already begun to hit home for you though, already started to make you feel breathless and to send a thousand thoughts of panic and worry to your mind, and you look down at your stomach automatically, before you raise your gaze to meet Mycroft’s. 

 

Mycroft swallows. Then he tugs his eyes away from yours and forces himself not to hear the unspoken whimper of, _‘Myc,’_ that he’d felt radiating from you as soon as your eyes had met his. Instead his eyes roam down your body, fixing on not just your stomach, but everywhere, whilst he curses himself for being so stupid to believe that it had merely been his lack of a relationship with Sherlock that had made you act in such an emotional way recently. Curses himself for not having seen this any sooner. For now, as he stares at you, he doesn’t even know _how_ he hadn't noticed, and he can feel panic beginning to well up inside him. For if he can’t even see something as simple and as straight-forward as that, can’t even recognize that your more emotional state was something that he should have paid attention to, then how can he be relied upon to tare care and look after you? Not just you but a child too? He swallows, his eyes moving away from you. For he can’t cope with everything he can suddenly see. Can’t cope with the way that you’re looking so petrified and vulnerable as he glances quickly back at your face. Can’t cope with looking at his brother either and seeing so much hatred there. He turns, pushing past you, and you let out a gurgle of despair as he does so, as if he’s rejecting you just in that very action. Then he runs upstairs. 

 

“She’s pregnant! Already two weeks gone by the looks of it! And running away and pretending to be all innocent won’t help you now!” Sherlock calls after him, whilst you slump back against the wall and gasp, your head dizzy, and you feel like you've had your whole life fractured by the youngest Holmes brother yet again. 

 

 _“See?”_ Sherlock says, turning back to you now, “That’s why you should have chosen me, I would never have done that to you, and if I had then I would never not have noticed it. I would never have been so neglectful and so pre-occupied and caught up in my work that I wouldn't have noticed such a”-

 

“Leave,” you say, huffing the word out in one breath, a pained expression on your face. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Sherlock questions, and he steps towards you now. 

 

You know he’s just trying to make sure you’re all right in his own silly way, but the truth is you’re not, and you can’t cope with him making everything into a competition right now, can’t cope with him rambling on about why you should have chosen him over his brother. “Leave,” you repeat. But still he just stands there, looking at you with his eyes swimming with so many colours and his lips slightly parted. _“LEAVE!”_ you scream, beside yourself now, and the release feels good. It feels good to shout. Then, when he still doesn’t do anything and Mycroft doesn’t make a reappearance, though you feel sure he would have heard your yell, you push Sherlock hard with your hands and manhandle him until he’s back out onto the street. You slam the door shut in his face in the next moment. Then, on shaky legs, you make your way upstairs. 

 

You find Mycroft in the bathroom. He’s standing hunched over the sink, with his hands gripping tightly onto its rim, and his face is so pale that he looks like he might be sick. He’d been staring hard at himself in the mirror, but as soon as he feels your presence standing by the open door, he bows his head. 

 

“You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs, “I know you’re disappointed in me. I know I’ve let you down.”

 

You swallow. Your arms had folded across your chest automatically as he’d begun to talk, but now they unfold and hang down awkwardly by your side. “I just wish that you hadn't run away like that”-

 

“Don’t you get it?” he asks, turning towards you now, and the wild look of sheer panic that’s in his eyes makes you swallow. “I'm _supposed_ to be clever”- 

 

“You _are_ clever,” you interrupt. 

 

But he’s too worked up to believe such a thing right now, and he swivels towards you, before he gestures with his hands as he goes on, “All that time in France, when you were acting so emotional, I thought, well, I don’t know what I thought, but then you confessed that it was just because of my brother and me and”-

 

 _“Just?”_ you question him angrily now, your hands on your hips. For you’d thought, and you’d genuinely _believed_ , that you’d made progress with the Mycroft-Sherlock situation during your time away, and more than that you’d thought that he’d truly learnt how much the whole thing was paining you. So to hear him treating it so casually now-

 

“I just,” Mycroft begins, and he waves his hands a little again, before he swallows. Then he goes on in a bit of a huff, “My point is that I never _once_ considered that you might be- _well_ -but I should have, it’s obvious to me now”-

 

“Just because I'm pregnant doesn’t mean that I'm not still pissed off about Sherlock and you, and if you dare go blaming this on hormones Mycroft Holmes then I swear to you that you’ll never be able to have a child again after this one!” you tell him angrily, glaring at him a little threateningly. 

 

“I know you’re angry about it, I accept that my love, but”- Mycroft begins, holding his hands up placatingly. 

 

“Don’t ‘my love,’ me,” you growl, interrupting him now, and then you swallow a bit to try and calm yourself down, before you ask, “What did Sherlock mean when he said all that stuff about your parents?” For although you’d barely been concentrating at that point you’d sensed the importance of his words all the same. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath. Then he runs both of his hands back through his hair, before he resumes his original position by the sink. “My father’s brother, well, he used to go out with Mummy”- you lean against the wall now, folding your arms and with your brow slightly furrowed as you listen, “But then he made a mistake and Mummy ended up going out with Father instead. My father’s brother still wanted to go out with Mummy though. But in the meantime she became pregnant with me and she decided to stay with Father. Father’s brother blamed Father all along, telling him that he’d only got her pregnant so that she’d be tied to him. Just like Sherlock’s doing with me now”- and Mycroft breaks off awkwardly with a bit of a flush on his face. You can tell just by looking at him that whenever he’d heard the story before he’d never once imagined that he’d be in a similar position with his own brother one day. But he takes the considering look that you’re giving him for something else, for he says, “I never-I _swear_ I never got you pregnant deliberately”-

 

“I know you didn't,” you cut him off. Then you ask, “Why didn't you ever tell me about any of that before?” 

 

He turns back to you now, looking puzzled. “I didn't see how any of it was relevant,” he confesses, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. 

 

“You _didn't_ see how any of it was relevant?” you ask, your voice cracking through the air now like a whip, and Mycroft flinches, his shoulders jerking down. “Even without me being pregnant it still would have explained a lot, _certainly_ your brother’s behaviour towards you in any case, for he clearly thinks that history’s repeating itself”-

 

Mycroft doesn’t care to hear something that he’d long since known however. In fact all he cares about right now is what’s going to happen in the future. “Are you going to keep it?” he asks. 

 

You lean back a little, feeling a little surprised by the question. Then, because you’d never thought of it any other way, you say, “Yes, I guess so”-

 

“Christ we’re not even married,” Mycroft says, taking your words like a death sentence, and he holds a hand to his nose, pinching the bridge of it as he looks away from you. 

 

“But we will be,” you say, stepping forwards a little, for in your mind he’s just exaggerating the situation and making more problems, and he looks back at you now, “And even if we aren't by the time the baby comes”-

 

“Of _course_ we’ll be married by then,” he interrupts, looking at you as if you've just gone mad. 

 

“I don’t want to look like a whale on my wedding day,” you protest, and he rolls his eyes now as if he thinks that you've got your priorities all wrong. 

 

But you learn in fact that his feelings go a lot deeper than that, when, after raking a hand through his hair, he turns back to the sink and says, “You know what? I think we should just think about this”- 

 

“What do you mean?” you ask him at once, a shiver of dread beginning to run through you. 

 

 _“Well,”_ he begins, swallowing a little as he turns back to you, and he reminds you so much of a child about to confess that they've done something wrong in that moment. “I mean, well I mean that we have to be sensible about this,” he says, and then when he sees that you still clearly don’t get the point that he’s trying to make, he blurts out, “For Christ sake F/N! I mean look at us, neither of us know a thing about parenting, neither of us even spotted that you were pregnant in the first place, me because I'm apparently not as clever as I thought, and you”- and he breaks off for a moment. Then he just stands there, breathing hard with his mouth open, before he asks when he thinks of something, “How did you _not_ know? Didn't you realize that your period was late?” 

 

“I, well, I”- you begin, feeling both a little startled and stumped now. “I realized it was running a little late, but I guess I lost track of just how late”- you say, and you break off, shifting your position a little guiltily now. 

 

“ ‘A _little_ late?’ You ‘ _lost_ track?’” Mycroft quotes you now, staring at you incredulously, “This is supposed to be _your_ body!”

 

“So what? You’re blaming me now?” you ask, beginning to feel scared all over again, before you add, “You think this is all _my_ fault?” 

 

“Well it’s certainly not all _mine_!” Mycroft retorts, moving his shoulders about now, his blue eyes blazing. Then as he turns his head away from you he huffs out in one breath that’s full of bitterness, “I never even wanted to become a father in the first place.”

 

You swallow at that. Then, feeling both angry and hurt all at the same time, not only because of his words but because of how selfish he’s being right now, you say, “I see,” before you reverse and make to leave him altogether. 

 

You hear him say, “For fuck’s sake,” and kick out at the sink as you go downstairs. 

 

You should have eaten over half-an-hour ago. But food’s the last thing on your mind. 

 

Instead you go into the living room where you sink down onto the edge of the settee and fold your arms around your chest, hugging it to you. You feel cold all over, and you even start rocking back and forth a little as you start to mull the situation over. It feels surreal to you that just this time last week you’d been in a hotel room in a different country, feeling so carefree and spending most of the day having sex with Mycroft. The thought of how much you’d hit each other with the belt and spanked each other that weekend comes back to you now, and even though you know that it’s unlikely to have done any damage to the new life that’s growing inside you, you still find yourself feeling repulsed by it all the same. Another thing that serves to repulse you is when you hear the sound of Mycroft coming downstairs, and when, instead of coming to you he goes out, slamming the front door on his way. For you can’t believe that he’d leave you like this, and as his earlier words come back to you, you feel stunned by how cruel he’d been. For even if that is how he feels, you feel sure that he could have found a better way to say it. A better way to say that he never wanted to be a father…feeling tearful now you get out your phone from the pocket of your jeans, hoping that will distract you. Instead it just leaves you feeling worse. For it appears that Sherlock’s told half of London about your new condition, and you've got voice messages there from Molly: “Oh my gosh F/N, I'm so happy for you. Sherlock just told me the news. He said that it’s pretty new for you too, and that Mycroft and you have only just found out, but we’ll have a catch-up soon. You can tell me all about France as well, bye. Oh, and you’re going to make an excellent mother, bye.” Greg: “Hey F/N, congratulations, saying that though I'm already dreading you going off on maternity leave. You’re one of the few officers who Sherlock puts up with. Anyway, tell Mycroft congratulations from me too would you? I’d buy you a drink if you weren't, well, y’know. Anyway I’ll see you both soon. Cheers and congrats.” John: “Jesus, I just heard. Listen F/N I can interpret from the little of what Sherlock’s told me that this has come as a bit of a shock. And I'm really, really sorry, but, well, you might already know, Sherlock’s telling everyone about it even though I’ve told him that he’s got no right to. He’s on the phone to his mother at the moment, so you might want to warn Mycroft about that. Anyway, if it makes you feel better, Mrs. Hudson’s gone off to make you a cherry pie. Apparently she read somewhere in a magazine recently that cherries are good for the baby. I'm not convinced.” And another one from John two minutes later: “Oh God, I just realized what I said. I'm such an idiot aren't I? Don’t answer that. Anyway I'm sure that cherries aren't bad for the baby either, so don’t get worrying. Also I just realized that I didn't congratulate you in my last message, so, um, congratulations.”

 

You huff out a breath, for right now you don’t feel like celebrating like everyone else. Then you place your phone down on the settee beside you. You’re quite tempted to switch it off altogether, but you suppose that you should keep it on just in case Mycroft decides that you’re worthy of his time. You sigh, pressing your hands against your forehead and wondering how things could have gone so wrong so quickly. The land line rings in the next moment. You ignore it. It’s probably Mycroft’s mother and you have little desire to speak to her right now. Little desire to speak to anyone in fact, except Mycroft, for even though he was cruel to you, you know that the only way that this situation is even going to get a little bit better is if he comes home and talks to you. You don’t try and phone him yourself though, for you know that he just needs time to get his head together and then, once he’s calmed down he’ll come back and you’ll finally be able to talk about it all. Whilst nor do you leave a message warning him that his mother might be in contact. For you might be just about rational enough to know that you need to talk to him right now, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not pissed off with him for saying those things, so he can find out some things for himself, you think. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s in the back of a taxi on the way to the Diogenes Club when his phone rings. He pulls it out and checks who it is. Then, when he sees that it’s Mummy, he chooses not to answer it. For knowing Sherlock he would have told her everything that’s going on by now. But in the end, when Mummy keeps trying to get in contact with him and he’s fed up of having his thoughts interrupted, he picks it up with a curt, “Hello? Mycroft Holmes speaking,” as if he’d had no idea that she’d even been trying to ring all this time.

 

“Mikey!” the screaming, shrill voice of his mother comes, and Mycroft groans inwardly, suddenly wishing that he hadn't answered his phone after all. “Oh God Mikey why didn't you tell me? Oh, it’s wonderful, your father and I are thrilled. I'm going to go to the shops tomorrow and have a look at what advice I can get you both to help the baby’s development. There’s so many things floating around these days, but I’ll do my best to make head or tail of it for you. I was also thinking of popping into some clothes shops and seeing what baby clothes they have available at the moment, I know it’s early days”-

 

“ _Very_ early days Mummy,” Mycroft interjects with his stomach squirming. 

 

“But if the baby’s due in December like Sherlock says it is”- and Mycroft blanches now, for he hadn't even done that calculation yet-“Then it might be better to get the springtime clothes that you’ll be needing a few months down the line nice and early, just in case they have nicer patterns then the ones that will be out next year. I did happen to hear this thing on the radio, purely coincidental, and this was before your brother phoned, though again I wish that you’d had the sense to phone me Mykie, Sherlock told me that you were helping F/N and that it had been quite a shock to the poor dear, though if you’re not going to wear protection”- and Mycroft’s stomach plunges now, both because of the fact that Mummy seems to think that _you’re_ the one who’s taken the news badly, and at her latter comment-“I'm glad that you didn't wear protection though Mykie, my first grandchild! Anyway, I'm getting off track, what I was going to say was that I heard this programme say about some drinks that might be good for expectant mothers to drink, all those vitamins and super-what-sits. I missed some of it, and of course I wasn't aware of the relevance of it at the time, but I’ve jotted down what I can remember from it. So perhaps I could have a quick word with F/N to tell her?” 

 

“Um,” is all Mycroft can manage to get out, and his heart rapidly sinks in his chest now. 

 

“Honestly Mycroft, whatever is wrong with you today? Considering the news you've got you’re awfully quiet. I would like to congratulate her too you know. After all she _is_ going to be the mother of my first grandchild.”

 

Mycroft can hear the pride in her voice, and suddenly he finds that he can’t say anything at all. 

 

 _“Mycroft?”_ she asks sharply, and he can tell that she senses that something’s not quite right now. 

 

“Um, I'm not, well actually I'm not at home right now. I’ve gone for a walk, to get some fresh air,” he partly invents.

 

“ _Fresh air?_ You’re in the back of a taxi aren't you? On the way to that club you go to, what’s it called? The one where they can’t talk?” Mummy says, seeing through him at once. 

 

“It’s called the Diogenes Club Mummy,” Mycroft frowns, before he confesses, “And yes, all right, I _am_ on my way there, but it’s only because it’s peaceful and I need time to think”- 

 

“Is something wrong?” 

 

“Um, well, it came as a bit of a shock to the both of us actually, the news I mean,” Mycroft admits. 

 

“What did you say to her?” Mummy asks sharply, and Mycroft swallows as he imagines her putting her free hand on her hip. 

 

“I, well, I sort of told her that I didn't want children amongst other things”-

 

“Oh for goodness sake Mycroft!” Mummy scolds him. "What did you have to go and say that for?" 

 

“Well it’s true,” Mycroft protests, “I didn't and I don’t, I was just trying to be realistic”-

 

“You need to go home and talk to her,” Mummy tells him. 

 

A long, uncomfortable silence follows, before finally Mycroft works up the courage to get out, “I-I'm scared, neither of us know a thing about being a parent, I”-

 

“Oh Mikey”- Mummy coos, and Mycroft suddenly wishes that she were in front of him so that she could hug him and make him feel better. Realizing how much he just wants to be held though soon makes him think of you, and how you probably want the same from him, and he just ends up feeling guilty to have left you in the first place. “Nobody’s ever going to feel prepared to become a parent, but what you need to do right now is to go home and support that fiancée of yours because she’s probably struggling with this as much as you are. Do you hear me?” Mummy continues. 

 

“Yes Mummy,” Mycroft says dutifully, and he comes off the phone to her a moment later. 

 

But still he doesn’t go home. For even though he knows that he should he already feels like he’s proved himself to be inadequate to you and that by going home he’ll only be risking doing such a thing even more. Whilst he also feels scared about seeing that look on your face and having to face how much he’s already disappointed you. Never mind how much he’ll probably do so again in the future…

 

* 

 

You go to bed early that night. Mycroft still hasn't come back, and though you've had more voice mail messages through on your phone as soon as you’d realized that none of them were from him you’d put your phone morosely aside and hadn't bothered to listen to them any further. 

 

You’re still not asleep when he gets back a little after midnight. You’re on your side with your back turned towards him, but even so you know that he can probably tell that you’re awake. Neither of you say anything to each other for a minute though. You just remain silent, whilst he clears his throat and gets changed into his pyjamas, and it’s only when he slips into bed behind you and attempts to put a hand that’s both tentative and delicate on your stomach that you finally react. Only then that you push his hand roughly away from you, whilst you clear your own throat and wriggle away from him. 

 

 _“F/N”-_ he attempts. 

 

“Don’t touch me,” you growl, rolling around with a thump to face him with a hard look upon your face. But you wrinkle your nose almost as soon as you do for you can smell the alcohol on his breath. “You've been drinking”-

 

“Only one or two.” 

 

“Yeah, well some of us, some of us can’t even have that any more, no matter how shit we feel. You know, just on the off-chance that you actually decide that you don’t want to terminate this baby after all.”

 

An uncomfortable ripple crosses over Mycroft’s face at the word ‘terminate,’ whilst his jaw tightens at all of your words. But then he heaves himself up into a sitting position and breathes out heavily, “I suppose I deserved that.”

 

“Yes, you did,” you tell him angrily, sitting up yourself now. He looks across at you, a tense expression on his face. “I’ve had messages of congratulations coming through on my phone all day since your idiot of a brother decided to tell everyone”- Mycroft swallows, for it hadn't occurred to him that _you_ might have had to partly deal with other people too-“I felt like messaging them back saying that I’d hold off on the celebrations if I was them.”

 

“What else did they say?” he asks tentatively. 

 

But he soon realizes that it was the wrong thing to say when you round on him and snap, “I don’t care, don’t you get it? The only person I needed was you, and _you_ walked out on me!” 

 

“I just felt like we needed our own space”- Mycroft attempts, before he breaks off when you make an irritated sound in your throat. 

 

“No,” you say, jabbing a finger at him, “ _You_ felt that _you_ wanted space because _you_ couldn't cope with it”-

 

“Fine! Yes! No I couldn't! I'm sorry to be such a disappointment to you!” Mycroft interrupts, his voice overriding yours, and you just stare hard at each other for a moment, both of you feeling like you've hit an emotional impasse. 

 

Then you stare down at your lap for a minute, before, making your mind up, you turn away from him and get out of bed. 

 

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asks. 

 

“I'm going to sleep in the spare room,” you say, clearing your throat a little. 

 

“I can”-

 

“I’ll be fine,” you tell him, “I just can’t stand to be around you right now.”

 

You leave the room a moment later, and Mycroft lets out a great big sigh as you do so, slumping back against the headboard. 

 

Needless to say neither of you get that much sleep that night.

 

*

 

You’re tired in the morning, but your mind’s more resolute and clear. You've been thinking long and hard about everything all night, and by the time that Mycroft walks into the living room fully dressed to find you sitting on the settee, you’re already starting to put the decision that you've made into action. 

 

“What are you doing?” he asks, nodding at your phone which is clasped in between your hands, whilst he puts a cup of tea down in front of you on the coffee table as a peace offering. 

 

“Looking up abortion clinics,” you tell him crisply, lifting your knees up to your chest now and holding them to you with one hand as he sits down with a thump beside you. 

 

 _“F/N”-_

 

“There’s one that doesn’t sound too expensive down on”-

 

“F/N, please. You don’t have to do that,” he tells you, moving to rest his hand lightly on your knee now. 

 

“ _Don’t_ I?” you ask, your voice higher than usual and full of emotion as you turn your head to look at him. 

 

He swallows at the sight of the tears in your eyes and withdraws his hand. “No,” he says quietly. 

 

You look away from him, facing the front instead. “Well I think I do,” you say, feeling resigned to such a thing in fact, and your body begins to tremble and tears start to fall and you can hear Mycroft letting out a little anxious breath beside you. “Because we only found out about this yesterday, and already, _already_ , I couldn't feel any further away from you,” and as you finish you look at him desperately. 

 

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft begins, shifting closer to you now because he knows that he’d done wrong by you yesterday and he wants to make up for it. “I know I was an idiot to leave you like that, please, please forgive me,” he says, and as he places a hand over yours now a gurgle escapes your lips. 

 

Then, without even being able to help it you cry out, _“Myc,”_ before you turn so that you’re now sitting on his lap. 

 

You cry into his shirt for a moment and clutch onto him, and he whispers, “Shh, shh, hey, it’s going to be all right,” whilst he feels not only a little startled by your outburst, but even more guilty for leaving you. Then he holds you close and kisses you on the top of your hair. “Don’t get rid of it,” he murmurs more desperately once you've calmed down a little, and you can feel his grip tightening on you as he says those words, “Please don’t get rid of it.”

 

“I don’t want to lose you,” you sniff, pulling your head back a little now so that you can look into his eyes. 

 

“You won’t, you won’t,” he murmurs, attempting to dry your face with his fingers now. 

 

“But you _said_ ”- you begin, holding the hand of his that’s on his face still with your own. 

 

He looks off to the side. “I should never have said that, it was stupid of me”-

 

“But if it was _true_ ”- you begin, turning his head with your hand now to get him to look at you with a sort of hopeless resignation about you. Then you lean back a little and hold onto his shoulders with your hands, and both of his support your back, whilst you say, “That’s what scares me. Because the only thing that would be worse than aborting this baby to me right now would be if we decided to keep it, but if you still had those thoughts and you didn't feel like you could tell me about them any more, and you got so resentful that you decided that you didn't want to be with me”-

 

“That would never, ever happen. I would never decide that,” Mycroft protests. 

 

“But I'm worried that you _would_ ,” you tell him, your tears almost dry on your face as you stare hard at him now, pleading with him to try and understand that for you, right now, what you've just said feels like a very real possibility. 

 

Mycroft ducks his head. Then he holds you with one hand, whilst he toys with your fingers with his other. “I'm scared, that’s the real reason I left yesterday,” he confesses as he looks up at you again, his hand stilling upon yours now, “I was scared then and I'm scared today and I don’t think I’ll ever stop being scared.”

 

“What scares you the most?” you ask softly, looking at him intently now. 

 

“That I’ll let you down,” he says, staring steadily into your eyes. Then, after a beat he says, “That I’ll let our child down,” and his gaze slides down to your stomach now. 

 

A little breath escapes you. Then, slowly, you take his hand with yours, and his eyes flick up as you do so, before you move it so that his hand comes to be resting flat against your stomach. You let go of it then, trusting him now in a way that you hadn't felt able to last night, and as his fingers slowly begin to move against your stomach, caressing it over your top, a little breath escapes you and you arch your head back slightly. 

 

“Hello,” he breathes delicately, in a perfectly serious fashion, and a watery kind of giggle escapes your lips as you look back at him. 

 

Then, after he looks back up at you again, you lean forwards, before you kiss him softly. 

 

It lasts only moments, but it’s meaningful all the same, and when you break apart another little breath escapes you, before you lower your head, pushing your nose against his shoulder. 

 

“I love you,” he murmurs, stroking at your back now. 

 

“I know,” you breathe, looking at him again. “But what are we going to do?”

**Author's Note:**

> I will be updating 'The Room' next, but I will put up the third and final part to this series shortly after that. 
> 
> Thank you as ever for your support. :)


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